


Rupert Street

by WritingOutLoud



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biphobia, Case Fic, Demisexual Sherlock Holmes, Exploration of sexuality, Fluff, Gay Bar, John is Smart, M/M, Mostly Fluff, drug references, emetophobia warning, zodiac killings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:29:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27609731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud
Summary: Discharged from the war with nothing but the clothes on his back and a realisation of his bisexuality, John Watson has to learn who he’s become. He can’t afford London on an army pension, but the city is the only friend he has. In an effort to understand his newfound queer identity, he heads to a bar one night, where he stumbles across a mysterious stranger who turns his life upside down.‘I dug around inside myself, and I'm not quite sure what I found, but it was beautiful and terrifying all at the same time.’
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 166
Kudos: 170
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	1. Rupert Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta, [ChaserJinx8065](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Chaserjinx8065). Your comments are priceless, and I'm sorry for endangering your laptop. I promise I can use apostrophes correctly. 
> 
> This story is for all the people that realised they were queer later in life. You are valid, no matter how long it took you to realise. Welcome to the family.

The bar is busy for a Thursday night. John hadn't expected it to be, but the larger crowd helps him blend in more. He feels awkward as he walks through the door — most of the people here are in groups, chatting away around tables or huddled in corners. There are a few people on the dance floor, their skin glowing violet in the purple overhead lights. 

He makes his way over to the bar, orders a beer, and beelines for the nearest empty table. He'll stay for one drink, he bargains with himself, then leave. 

It isn't that he doesn't want to be here, on the contrary, he'd looked forward to the experience — he just felt out of place; massively outside his comfort zone. He doesn’t make a habit of visiting bars in general, let alone gay ones. He wants to be here, to try something new, but he doesn't feel like he entirely belongs yet. He's only recently started to understand his sexuality — to come to terms with the fact that perhaps he’s not quite as straight as he'd thought. He feels silly; a man his age should surely have worked that out sooner. After everything he's been through, all the things he's discovered about himself, his bisexuality should have been one of the easier things to decipher. It's not as if he's never had sex with a man, but each time he caught himself reassuring himself that it was strictly platonic — a purely transactional event. Until it wasn't. At thirty-five years old, he suddenly finds himself re-evaluating his life through the new lens of his queerness. And it is... surprisingly, okay. 

When he spoke to Harry about it, despite their ongoing disagreements, she had suggested putting himself out there — trying new situations in case he found something he liked. He'd looked up LGBTQ+ support groups in London, social meetups and even writing get-togethers. It was overwhelming at first, the seemingly wide range of choice in something he had no experience with. Doubt ate at him regularly — did he even belong in those spaces? He'd spent thirty-five years believing himself to be straight, what queer experiences did he have to share? Whilst he knew this was wrong, that there were plenty of people like him who didn't come out until later in life, there was still a nagging sensation of not belonging. Hence, he found himself in a bar, in Soho, on a Thursday night. One step at a time.

As the minutes pass, he settles considerably. Really, this is just like any other bar — only with more rainbows and same-sex couples cosied in corners. 

His eyes are drawn to the bar by a flurry of movement. A curly-haired man stands leaning against it, surveying the crowd. It takes a moment for John to realise that the movement was his coat, swirling around his legs as he spun around. John's eyes roam over him, taking in the sharp line of his suit and the flow of his coat. He's attractive — all cupid bow lips and high cheekbones. There's still a knot in John's stomach as if he's been caught doing something wrong, and he has to keep reminding himself that this is okay. He's allowed to find other men attractive. It's why he's here — to surround himself with people that are just like him. Mostly. 

A tan, white-shirted guy approaches Mr Cheekbones, perching on the bar beside him, leaning forward to whisper something in his ear. John watches as the curly-haired man shakes his head and goes back to surveying the crowd. The white-shirt stays, reaching his hand to rest in the small of the coated-man’s back, murming words John can't quite hear. The taller man stiffens and tries to shuffle away along the bar. 

John doesn't realise he's staring until curly hair turns and catches his gaze, locking eyes and striding over. John panics a little. Did he think he was checking him out? He was, a little, but he's not quite ready to start picking people up in bars. 

"Ah, there you are. I couldn't find you." The man says, the sentiment not quite reaching his eyes. "I'm glad you found the place." The man leans forward and pulls him into an awkward hug. John stiffens, not quite sure what to do with his hands. Is this normal? Some kind of queer greeting familiarity he hasn't learnt about yet? 

John's worries are quelled when the man whispers into his ear: "Play along, the idiot at the bar doesn't seem to understand the word 'No'." 

They pull apart, and John tries to smile like he's just greeted an old friend. He's not sure it doesn't look like a grimace, but the man smiles back all the same. 

"I almost got off at the wrong station, but I got here in the end. Bloody tube." He says. He's not lying — that had actually happened. It's been a while since he's used public transport, and he's sure it's become more complicated since the last time. The stranger's eyes crinkle at the edges, and he pulls off his coat, draping it over the back of his chair. 

After a few minutes of idle chatter, the white-shirted stranger loses interest and flags the barmaid over. She's dressed entirely in black with cropped brown hair; almost disappearing altogether in the room of vibrantly dressed men. 

"Do you mind if we head out?" 

"Yeah sure, I'll just finish my drink," John replies. He drains the last swigs from the bottle and stands to leave, grabbing his jacket from the chair. John is led through the glass doors, and he feels the gaze of the white shirt follow them as they leave. 

"Thank you for that. I was trying to stay undercover but he was making it rather difficult." They walk in step beside each other, only moving to swerve around pedestrians walking the other way. 

"Oh, no worries. Glad I could help. I was getting ready to leave anyway." John pulls his coat a little tighter against the evening chill. "Police?"

"No, consulting detective," The man smirks. "Only one in the world, I invented the job." 

"What does that mean?" 

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs." John scoffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

The stranger stops in his tracks, his coat fluttering with the motion. His eyes dart back and forth over John's body, seemingly taking in every detail. John pulls his shoulders in, suddenly feeling very exposed. 

"I know you're an ex-army medic who's only recently returned home. You were medically discharged — there's a bullet wound in your left shoulder. You've never been to an LGBT bar before, and you're nervous about it. You're struggling financially — you can't go to your family for help; you're socially isolated, but you also can't afford to be in London, yet you wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

John's brow furrows as he looks the man up and down, his stomach uneasy at how much the stranger knows about him. 

"How could you possibly know that?" 

"I didn't know, I _noticed_. The way you hold yourself says military, but the location of your injury and the lack of calluses on your hands suggests a medic rather than a standard soldier. When I hugged you I felt the ridge of a scar on your shoulder — given its size and scarring pattern you were most likely shot from the back, indicating you were bent over a patient in the field when you were shot. You flinched when I brushed against it, so it's only recently healed — you must have only returned home in the past few weeks then. You were at the bar alone, not scanning the crowd or waiting to meet anyone. The table you chose was hard to see from the door — if you were meeting someone you'd have chosen one closer so they could find you easily. Most people don't go to new places alone, so you must be isolated. You kept looking around, taking in every detail of the space — a nervous habit from time in the military. You're anxious in new surroundings, so you catalogue the area in case you need to make an escape. Thus, new to the gay scene. 

“Army pensions don't pay very much, and, given what you're wearing, you must not have an alternative source of cash. You've tried to make an effort — styling your hair and wearing nice clothing — but each item is over two years old. Bought in charity shops, or leftover from your last period of leave. You can't afford to buy new clothing, and no-one has gifted you any. So the likelihood is you live alone, without a close family to support you."

There's a beat of silence where the two lock eyes, sizing each other up. John isn't sure whether to be scared, insulted, or impressed that this complete stranger can read his entire life story in just his face and clothes. Eventually, he settles on impressed. 

"That...that was amazing."

"You think so?" John thinks he sees the strangers eyes widen, taken aback by the compliment.

"Of course, it was extraordinary; quite extraordinary." They start walking again, John a stride behind, letting himself be led. 

"That's not what people normally say." 

"What do they normally say?" 

"Piss off." 

John lets out a cackle of laughter that takes him by surprise. It's been a while since he's genuinely laughed, he realises. It feels good — like clearing out a dusty corner of his mind. 

They stop outside the entrance to Piccadilly Circus station, pulled to the side to let the crowds past. 

"And what about you? What could I read from you?" John asks, more flirtatiously than he'd intended. 

The man's mouth curls at the edges and he lifts his coat collar up so it lies flush with his ridiculously long neck. 

"I'll be seeing you around, Dr Watson." He says enigmatically, before disappearing into the crowd. 

John is left with an empty feeling inside as he descends the steps to the station. He pats his pocket for his oyster card, before giving up and using his credit card as the queue builds behind him. The curly-haired stranger lingers in his mind all the way home, and it's not until he disembarks at Edgware that he realises, far too late, that he'd never told the man his name. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rupert Street is a real bar in Soho, London. Now, because of this fic, they follow me on Twitter, which may be one of my greatest achievements yet. Whether they realise I write fanfic or not is up for debate, but let's focus on the good things.


	2. The Science of Deduction

Two days later, John is still thinking about the encounter. In the quiet moments, his mind replays the phantom feeling of the hug; the skipping of his heart as the dark-haired stranger saw his life painted across his body. He tries, as much as possible, to remember the small details about him — to deploy the same trick. He distinctly remembers the crisp lines of his suit, lying flush on his skin; purple collar framing that long, pale neck. He sees the cheekbones and black hair, perfectly curled. The coat; draping over his body and falling free around his knees. John remembers the man vividly, but when he tries to discern the hidden details, his mind draws a blank. 

He wishes he'd asked for his number. Or at least his name. He contemplates returning to the bar that night, in the hope that the mystery man will be there again. He doubts it, but the more hours pass, the harder it is to get the memories out of his head. 

He has an interview in the afternoon — a general practitioner position at a clinic in Camden. He's wholly overqualified, but there seems to be nowhere else that will take him. Veteran surgeons aren't in high demand. 

The staff are friendly at the clinic. They ask him about his deployment, worried that the mundanity of general practice will be too much for him. He reassures them that it won't be, but he knows he's lying. He's never been one for mundane, but he's in desperate need of the money. His mystery man was right; army pensions don't pay well. At the rate he's going, if he doesn't get work soon, he'll have to move out of London. John hopes it won't get that far. 

As he leaves the consulting room and the interview behind, he passes through the waiting room. It's empty now — only the echoes of coughs and colds left. Flickers of movement on the wall catch his eye, and his gaze is drawn to the television mounted there. BBC News is playing, running a story about a murder in Soho. He wouldn't have stopped; wouldn't have given it a second glance, but they show a photo of the victim: Daniel Murphy, aged 29. 

John stops mid-stride. The name means nothing to him, but the face is familiar. At first, he can't quite place it — the memory of the man dancing outside his subconscious. Then it hits him; the white-shirted man from the bar. 

A flash of fear runs through him, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on edge. Daniel Murphy was in the same bar, talking to the same man, and now he's dead. 

The television is muted, but electric blue subtitles appear on the bottom of the screen.

' _Daniel Murphy, 29, was found dead in Soho village last night. Police have determined the death suspicious, but have yet to release the cause. Anyone with information about his whereabouts on 29th January is being urged to contact the police on the following number.'_

John makes a note of the helpline and steps out the door onto the quickly darkening street. His call is answered on the tenth ring, and he's instructed that he has an appointment to see a Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard at 8.00 am tomorrow. He chuckles to himself when the voice queries if eight is too early; he's lucky if he sleeps past four these days. 

*

When he descends the steps at Embankment station the next morning, he pauses for a moment to take in the view. He commits to memory every building bordering the river; each person hurrying along the pavements and every smell that reaches his nose. John takes a deep inhale of the London air and feels regret pulling at his chest. There is nowhere else he'd rather be — no other city or town that gives him comfort the way London does; quiet anonymity whilst being part of a living, breathing entity. Originally, he was from Essex, but he'd loved every visit here as a child. John would beg his parents to bring him every birthday, and he'd wile the hours away aimlessly wandering the streets, marvelling at the hidden treasures nestled between the crowds. 

When it came time to choose a university, there was no question of where he wanted to be. Six years living in central, and he’d never tired of it. After he enlisted, the thing he knew he'd miss the most, beyond his family or friends, was the city. 

Each time he was given leave, he'd spend a week or so with Harry and his mum, before making his way back to London. He savoured the moments when he'd step off the train and inhale the first lungful of London air; it tasted like home. 

So, when he was finally discharged, there was no question of where he wanted to be. The only problem was, London was expensive. Part of the reason he enlisted in the first place was the bursary the army gave him. Money was tight at home, and his sister was already skirting along the edges of an alcohol habit. The grant money was enough to keep him in London, so he took it. 15 years and one bullet wound later, he finds himself in the same position; find the money, or get out. 

He pulls himself from the trance and follows the river towards Scotland Yard. The wind is harsh on his skin, and the air has the frosty bite of winter. It's not as cold as it had been — winter is quickly fading into spring — but it makes a welcome change from the scorching dry heat of Afghanistan. His second home; another place where he felt he belonged more than any other, now tainted with the memories of pain and blood and death. The cold was good. Cold was safe. 

The rotating doors give a soft whoosh as he walks through them into the high ceilinged foyer of Scotland Yard. A young woman in uniform greets him, instructing him to empty his pockets into the tray, before stepping through the arch of a metal detector. His stomach flips in brief panic, despite knowing for sure that he's left his gun at home. When the machine stays silent, the officer hands him back the tray with his wallet and phone, waving him onwards towards the front reception. 

"Good morning, how can I help you?" 

"Yes, I'm here to speak to a Detective Inspector Lestrade?" 

"Do you have any ID, sir?" 

"Oh, yes." John slides his driver's licence out of his pocket, and the receptionist merely glances at it before handing him a scarlet shaded lanyard. John loops it around his neck, the plastic card declaring ‘visitor’ sitting snugly against his chest. 

"I'll let them know you're here. If you make your way into the waiting room to your right, someone will come down to collect you soon." 

"Cheers." 

John walks through the open archway and takes a tentative seat on a grey cushioned chair, clenching and unclenching his left fist. His shoulder has started to ache again. He has found it hurts the most when he is nervous or stressed, the muscle surrounding it pulling at the scarred tissue whenever his neck tenses. He was meant to have left this part behind; people dying around him. He rolls the shoulder back in its socket, trying to ease some of the aches. It works a little, whilst he moves it, but the minute it falls still, the pain comes creeping back. If he had the money, he'd get someone to look at it — a physiotherapist to loosen the muscle and soften the scars. As it stands, the NHS has decided that it would be a luxury he can't afford. 

"Dr Watson?" 

He turns to the source of his name; a grey-bathed woman on the far side of the room. The blue of her lanyard stands out brightly against the dull colour of her dress. 

She says his name as an instruction rather than a question — a request to follow her. He stands, holding his hand out and taking her own in a tight handshake. 

"Thank you for coming, Doctor. I'm Sergeant Donovan, I'm working on the Daniel Murphy case."

"Nice to meet you, Sergeant." 

She turns on her heel and leads him through a set of double doors, her trainers squeaking on the linoleum. The room beyond turns out to be an open-plan office, hundreds of people sat at computers, chattering into headpieces or typing furiously away at their keyboards. The mundanity of it makes John's head spin. 

"This way, please." Donovan walks around the edge of the room, coming to a halt in front of a lift in the far corner. The doors open with a creak, and John enjoys the twist in his stomach that comes from ascending too quickly. They only climb two floors before the doors open again, and the Sergeant wastes no time in leading him down the endless twist of corridors that lie beyond. 

John is glad for the lack of small-talk. Most days, it's a skill he's perfected, but over the last few months, the superficiality of it has irritated him. No one really cares about what's beyond the layers of 'How are you?' and 'I'm doing fine'. He has to plaster a smile on his face and act cheery to be here, when in reality he's anything but. Faced with the mundanity of civilian life and the prospect of leaving his beloved home, John has found himself slipping further and further into the grips of depression. Combined with the PTSD fuelled nightmares, there are days when he cannot sleep, yet finds it impossible to function long enough to get out of bed. When they ask how he is, no-one wants to hear about those days, but they are the most frequent. 

He's seeing a therapist — Ella — having been bumped to the top of the waiting list. Special perks of an army discharge. It's early days, and she's given him endless coping mechanisms and space to talk about the void he holds inside, but so far, nothing seems to be helping. As a medical professional, he knows these things take time — he just needs to trust her. As John, he's fed up. 

"In here." The Sergeant opens the door to her left, holding it open by the handle whilst staying outside of the room. "I'll be back in a moment." 

John nods, walking into the room and taking a seat at the wooden table in the centre. Just like the Sergeant, everything in this room is grey. The table is pale and smoky, and the chairs are dark and ashen. He only has to wait a few minutes before the door opens again, and a silver-haired man enters, followed by Sergeant Donovan. 

"Thank you for coming, Dr Watson. I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, lead investigator on the Daniel Murphy case."

"Please, call me John." 

Lestrade smiles and takes the seat opposite John, placing a thickly bound file on the table between them. Donovan sits in the chair at the end, setting a laptop in front of her. 

"Sergeant Donovan will be taking notes if that's alright by you. We're just going to ask you a few questions, then I'll let you speak freely about any information you have." 

John nods, as Lestrade opens the file in front of him and pulls out an A4 photo, sliding it over the table to John. 

"Do you recognise this man?" 

"Yes." 

"Please tell me about your relationship with him." 

"Daniel was his name, right? I didn't know him. I just saw him last night. At a bar." 

"Which bar were you at?" 

"Rupert Street." John's stomach clenches, expecting the DI to react in some way to the name, but he doesn't so much as raise an eyebrow. Either he's never heard of the place, or he simply doesn't care. John knows there's nothing to be ashamed of — but he still can't shake the worry that shrouds him whenever he shares information about his new-found sexuality. Harry says it will get easier, but from where he's sat, it doesn't feel like it ever will. 

"What time did you last see him?" 

"Uh, I got there at about ten past eight, so it mustn't have been long after that." 

"What was he doing when you saw him?" 

"Trying to chat up a bloke at the bar. He was quite forward, I think, but I couldn't hear him. The other guy came over and sat with me to get away. We left, then I didn't see him after that." 

Donovan's fingers flutter over the laptop keys, her eyes darting back and forth across the screen. The glow from it lights up her face, casting dark shadows under her chin and jawline. 

"What about the guy he was hitting on, did you get his name?" 

"Um, no — but I did speak to him for a while." 

"What did he look like?"

"Curly black hair, high cheekbones, very tall — he was wearing a suit and one of those Belstaff coats, you know the really thick ones." 

The clicking of the keys suddenly stops, and the two police officers exchange a glance. Unspoken words pass between them, and John clears his throat to regain their attention. 

"Did he work out your life story just by looking at you?" Lestrade asks, leaning an elbow on the table and scratching his temple. 

"Err — yeah, how did you —" 

Lestrade sits back heavily in his chair, rubbing at his face with his hand. 

"Freak," Donovan mutters, letting out a sigh. 

"Sorry?" John sits a little straighter; his stomach squeezing tighter. His hands start to clench into fists again beneath the desk; Captain Watson threatening to take over. 

"We know him. He's a... " Lestrade pauses as if trying to select the right words, "...colleague." 

"More like a pain in the arse," Donovan says under her breath, resuming her typing, more aggressively than before.

"Donovan." Lestrade scolds. 

"Sorry, sir." For a while, the only sound is the click of Donovan's fingers rhythmically hitting the laptop keys. John shifts in his chair, mildly uncomfortable at the direction the conversation has taken. His shoulders relax a little, but the show of unprofessionalism has put him on edge. 

"Can you tell us anything else about the victim?" Lestrade asks, pushing the photo back into the folder and closing it up. 

"No, sorry. That's all I saw." 

"Thank you for your time, Dr Watson. We'll be in touch if we need to speak to you again." John nods, pushing his chair back and lifting himself to his feet. The muscles in his back are still tight, but his skin is less twitchy from the adrenaline. 

Donovan snaps the laptop lid shut and crosses the room to open the door. John follows, pausing just before he exits the room. 

"Can you tell me his name? The... colleague?" 

The DI purses his lips, looking John over as if deciding whether he's worth sharing the information with. Something about John seems to satisfy him, however. 

"Sherlock Holmes." 

John nods, once, and leaves the room. 

Donovan is silent all the way back to the reception. John has questions, most of them about the mysterious Sherlock Holmes, but he holds his tongue. She probably wouldn't be allowed to answer them anyway. 

Donovan bids him farewell once they reach the foyer, and he leaves through the rotating doors, returning his lanyard back to the desk on the way out. 

Sherlock Holmes. He turns the name over in his head all the way home. It's old fashioned, and it fits strangely in John's mouth, but he likes it. It seems to suit the mysterious stranger. At least now he knows that Sherlock Holmes probably didn't murder Daniel Murphy — not if the police actually know him. He contemplates the possibility — had he ever suspected the man of killing Murphy? It had crossed his mind, briefly, but he seemed to dismiss it out of principle. Too quickly, perhaps. 

John stops at his bedsit only long enough to grab a sandwich and his laptop. He finishes the sandwich, cheese and pickle, in a couple of bites and walks the short route down to the public library. Since he feels well enough to venture outside of the bedsit today, he'd rather not spend any more time in it that he has to. Besides, he doesn't have WiFi. Another expense he can't afford. 

The library is busy when he arrives — filled with students and families — but he finds a quiet spot in a dusty corner. The chair scrapes against the floor when he pulls it out, and his laptop is very slow, but he diligently types 'Sherlock Holmes' into the search bar. There can't be that many in the book. Sure enough, the first result proves fruitful. 

**The Science of Deduction**

**— Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.**

John scrolls down various articles listing the numerous types of tobacco ash, and how to identify someone's profession by their left thumb. He stares a little at his own, unable to see the distinctive marks of a surgeon carved over the skin. Still, Sherlock had seemed to be able to find them. Most of the articles are interesting ideas, if not tedious to read. John is reminded of his university days, scrolling through endless scientific articles for his research projects. 

He keeps scrolling until he hits the bottom of the page. There, sat inconspicuously in the corner, is an address. 

**221B Baker Street,**

**London,**

**NW1 6XE**

He considers going over there, confronting the man with his name and his website — but concludes that would be far too forward. He'd probably come across like a stalker. He scours the rest of the website for clues, small insights into the man's life, but finds nothing but databases and scathing critiques of human behaviour. 

_'I don't know, I notice.'_ The words echo around John's head. What is he not noticing? If he were Sherlock, what would he be able to see? He closes his eyes for a minute, and when he opens them, he starts again. 

There are four different articles on chemicals and their forensic uses: two about poisons, one on perfume, and one on household cleaning fluid. A special interest in chemistry, perhaps. There are articles about the human body and corpse decay — but these are far fewer. Sherlock clearly has no qualms about maintaining human dignity and judging by the language he's used, John would say Sherlock has conducted experiments on the bodies himself. Clearly not squeamish then, or with any particularly strong moral code. Where would he get the body parts? John gets stuck on that question for ages. Nowhere in the articles does it say what lab Sherlock uses, or whether he is affiliated with a particular hospital. John is about to call it a day when he discovers the comments section. He scrolls through — they are mostly people commenting on his scientific process or commending him on his findings — but there, a few pages down:

**Hi Sherlock, I think you left your tie at Barts today? I've kept it aside for you.**

**— Molly x**

**No, it's not mine. I don't wear ties.**

**— SH**

St Bartholomew’s then — it's the only place he can think of that Molly could be referring to. John smiles to himself, not caring what the people around him think. Sherlock was not the only one who got to know everything.

He snaps the laptop shut, earning a dirty look from the student next to him, and makes his way out of the door. He pulls his phone from his pocket, hoping that the number he's looking for is still in his contacts list. Sure enough, there near the bottom, is the name he's looking for.


	3. Angelo's

Mike Stamford looks different from how John remembers. Then again, he supposes he does too. Mike seems rounder — a little softer, grown into the sharp angles of his youth. He has glasses now too — small oval ones that make his eyes look a bit too big. 

"John Watson!" He bellows as he enters the pub, pulling John into a tight hug. "How long has it been? Eight years?" 

"Something like that." John can't help the grin that starts to spread across his face. He and Mike had been close at uni; they played rugby together in the evenings and downed pints at the weekends. Over the years they'd fallen out of touch, which was mostly John's fault. After his first tour, when he'd come back to London, Mike and the uni lot organised a big get-together in celebration. It had been nice to see them again — a breath of normalcy after the constant adrenaline high of deserts and bullets. Yet, the whole time he was there, necking back pint after pint, he felt as if he'd crossed a line they hadn't. John Watson had seen death. More than that, he'd seen the underbelly of humanity, the damp filled closet hidden from the rest of society. John didn't have words for the things he had seen; the things he had done. Most of the time, it didn't bother him — God knows he thrived on the adventure of it all — but he knew it was something the people surrounding him would never understand. It was as if a glass barrier had been erected between them, and they could only wave at each other from the other side. Friends would ask him how his tour had been; beg for gruesome stories and tales of near misses. He would indulge them, at least for a while, but they listened with a sense of detachment that John could not master. He had lived it, this was his life, and they... had not. 

From then on, he found himself drifting further and further away until he stopped contacting them altogether. He could have been dead, for all they knew. He very nearly was. 

"I'm sorry I missed the wedding, Mike. The pictures looked wonderful." John takes a sip of his beer, then wipes away the froth that clings to his mouth. 

"Oh, it's no worries, John. I understand. Queen and country and all. You need to meet Liz though, you'd both get on like a house on fire." 

John's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. He very much doubts they would. 

Part of him feels bad — using Mike like this. He should have contacted him before, asked for a genuine meetup, rather than to gain information about his mysterious Sherlock Holmes. Still, he's here now, and that's what counts. Probably.

"Are you still at Barts? Last I heard you were taking a teaching position." 

"Yeah, bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them." 

John chuckles, wrapping both hands around the cold glass of his beer. The condensation drips over his fingers, pooling into the crevices of his skin. 

"Have you, uh...have you ever met someone called Sherlock Holmes?" He asks, trying to sound as casual as possible — betrayed only by the slight waver in his voice. Mike doesn't seem to notice. 

"Oh yeah, he comes in a lot. Strange fellow. Some sort of detective from what I can gather. Liaises with the police from time to time.” He passes his glass from one hand to the other. “I seem to be one of the only members of staff that he entertains. Well, me and Molly. Poor girl." 

"Poor girl?" 

"Oh, she's got a bit of a thing for him is all. Not sure he's noticed, bless her. Seems a bit oblivious to it all." 

John's brow furrows in confusion, but he masks it quickly. That doesn't match with the information he's collected. Sherlock seemed perfectly capable of understanding when someone was flirting with him. Unless he was ignoring her on purpose. 

"What's he like? You said he was odd, what did you mean by that?" 

"Well, like I said he hardly talks to anyone. If he does, it's only to deduce them to an inch of their life. Some kind of defence mechanism, I suppose.” He gives a sharp chuckle. “Spends hours locked away in one of the labs upstairs — it's the one I use, which is why I know him — conducting all kinds of experiments. I'm sure I've seen him using human body parts occasionally." Mike seems to shudder at the thought of it, despite being a medical professor. Which leaves John to wonder — what kind of experiments has Sherlock been doing? 

They both take another sip of beer — John’s glass has warmed slightly under his hand.

"Why do you ask?" The inevitable question John has been waiting for. How does he explain? To anyone else, his actions could sound creepy. Which, if he admits it, they are a little. But there is something about Sherlock Holmes, some invisible force drawing John in. No matter how hard he tries, he just can't get the man out of his head. 

"I met him at a bar. Said he worked at Barts." Better not to tell Mike the whole truth. As it is, Mike's mouth flattens, and a flash of hurt crosses his eyes. "I remembered you worked there and thought I should get in touch. For old time's sake." The lie easily drips off John's tongue, and Mike's face softens again. 

"Ah well, I'm glad you did! Another round?" 

John nods, and they spend the rest of the afternoon in easy conversation; years worth of catching up to do. He tries to keep the conversation away from himself and his deployment, not wanting to relive the moments with someone who can't quite grasp the gravity of them. John keeps his answers about Afghanistan short, quickly segueing into safer areas of conversation. He's become so good at it that Mike barely notices he doesn't quite answer his questions. They talk about Harry, the state of her marriage and the return of her alcoholism. Out of everything, this is one area he doesn't feel awkward talking to Mike about. He was there at its worst — there isn't much he can say that Mike doesn't already know. 

Mike and Liz are expecting their first child in a few months, which is a goldmine of chatter for John to dig into. He's never had a strong desire to have his own children, but he doesn't mind hearing other people talk about theirs. 

The hours fly past, and before they know it, Mike is slurring his words and giggling with alcohol saturation. John deposits him in a taxi with promises to ‘Meet soon!’ and to ‘Stay in touch!’, which they both know won't happen. It's the perpetual lie of British conversation. 

John walks in the direction of the nearest tube station, hands deep in his coat pockets. He breathes deeply, savouring the feeling of the air seeping into his lungs, clearing his sinuses. London has a very distinct smell — a deep warmth and metallic tang that paints your airways silver. It's the smell of life — of thousands of intersecting stories and moments; the breath of a million people alive in unison. Sardines swimming together in harmony. Since he was a child, he savours the moment where he steps off the train, inhaling the first lungful of London, adding his life to the story. 

He doesn't realise where he is until the crowd swallows him. People walk past in all directions, creating a living river through the streets. He smiles to himself, letting the stream carry him until he recognises the street name. Rupert Street. The bar is more crowded than it had been that night — the patrons spilling out of the door and onto the road. He considers going in but concludes that perhaps the bars are not for him. Not alone. It's not as if he ever had any particular interest in bars before, so why should he force himself into LGBT ones for the sake of it? The point was meant to be that he was trying to understand himself — not create a new personality. Maybe this doesn't have to be a big thing. Perhaps this is just another fact about himself that he carries with him, like each time he's discovered something new before. It doesn't have to change his world, he is still the same John Watson. Now he just has the language to express himself better. He can describe the feelings inside of him. 

John is pulled from his musings by the flutter of white police tape on the corner of a building. He changes course to walk towards it, intrigued at its stark contrast to the deep purples and reds of the surrounding bars. As he gets closer, he sees it's snapped — the section fixed to the wall is only half a meter long — remnants of a crime past. The building forms the border of an alley, a narrow passage between an office building and a Chinese restaurant. Green commercial waste bins border each side, with a scattering of litter at the base of each. There's nothing unusual about the scene — just an empty alley in a dark corner of London — but John can't seem to walk away. Daniel Murphy was murdered in Soho. Could this have been where? It's been long enough that the police would have cleared the scene, and it would have been impossible to spot if not for the calling card of the cordoning tape. 

John glances around him before walking further into the ally, scanning the tarmac for any sign that someone could have died here. Sure enough, the middle of the road is a little brighter than the edges — dust lifted from excess scrubbing. John squats down to take a closer look, running his finger along the tarmac in the hope that it will reveal its secrets. He feels it then — the heavy presence of death in the air. He's not sure if it's a natural phenomenon, or merely a trick his brain does to fill in space, but the air becomes thick and hot around him. It pushes on his skin; clogs up his lungs. 

"I was wondering how long it would take you to come here." 

John jumps at the noise, instinctively reaching for a gun that's not there. He lifts himself to his feet and whirls around to face the opening of the ally, one hand still hovering at his waistline. Sherlock Holmes stands in the entryway, silhouetted against the violet backlight of the bar behind. John's shoulders relax, but he stays standing straight, adrenaline starting to bubble in his veins. 

"Have you been following me?" John asks, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. He really doesn't know the man, he has no reason to feel that way. 

"I was in the area. I happened to see you." Sherlock looks pointedly at where John's hand still hovers at his hip. John drops it, clenching it into a fist at his side. 

"I didn't kill him." Sherlock's voice is a gentle rumble in the darkness, and John can't help but feel reassured by it, even knowing he shouldn't. 

"I never said you did." 

"You were thinking about it."

"Not at all." 

"Then I'm disappointed. You saw me talk to the victim, then I show up seventy-two hours later at the scene of the crime. Most people would assume." 

"I'm not most people." 

"No, you're not." Sherlock's lips curl into a half-smile, and John feels his own mirror in response. 

"So this is where it happened? Daniel Murphy was killed?" John asks.

"Yes. Scotland Yard cleared the scene this morning." 

"Was there a lot of blood?" 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. 

"The road has been scrubbed clean — the middle is lighter than the edges and it smells like bleach. The only reason they would have done that was if there was a lot of blood." 

"Very good. There was, but it wasn't his." 

"Whose was it then?" 

"A donor. They matched the DNA to an Elizabeth Patterson. She has an alibi." 

"How did you know it wasn't his?" 

"He died from asphyxiation. Choked on his own vomit." 

John's brow furrows, and he rubs a finger along his forehead in confusion. 

"So how do you know he was murdered?" 

Sherlock smirks and reaches into his coat, pulling out a sleek black phone. He unlocks it and scrolls for a second before turning the screen to show John. John blinks a few times at the brightness, and when his vision comes back into focus, he sees the photo of a body, pale and blue, laid out on a steel mortuary bench. As bodies go, it looks perfectly normal, except for the large symbol carved into his chest. 

"What is that?" 

"A zodiac sign. Aquarius to be exact, or so Molly tells me." 

"Why would someone carve a zodiac sign into a dead man's chest?" It's dark, so he can't be sure, but John swears he sees Sherlock's eyes sparkle with excitement. 

"That's what I'm trying to find out." 

Sherlock pockets the phone, and for a minute the pair stand regarding each other, daring the other to make the next move. 

"Dinner?" Sherlock finally asks, plastering a look of innocence on his face that isn't fooling anyone. 

"Starving." 

Sherlock leads him down various twisting back alleys and hidden pathways until they reach a small restaurant, tucked just off of Oxford street. The light from inside bathes the pavement golden yellow, looking for all intents and purposes as if it's been plucked from the front of a Christmas card — minus the snow. A bell jingles as they enter and a wall of warmth envelopes them as they cross the threshold. Without bothering to wait for a staff member, Sherlock leads John to a table by the window. 

"You never asked me if I did it," John says once they're both seated. A cursory glance at the menu confirms his suspicions that he can't afford anything here. Especially not after the pints from earlier. 

"Sorry?"

"You never asked me if I killed him." 

"Did you?"

"No."

"Glad we've settled that." A waiter heads in their direction, greeting Sherlock in what John thinks is Italian; he's never been particularly good at languages. To his surprise, Sherlock answers effortlessly, smiling up at the man with a warmth that only comes from old acquaintances. 

"What would you like? It's on me. Or rather, on him. He owes me a favour." Sherlock switches seamlessly back into Italian to place his order, and John takes a second to reply, too busy marvelling at the interaction. 

They order, and John leans back in his chair, waving away the wine bottle when the waiter tries to pour him a glass. He's had enough alcohol for the day. Besides, he wants to remember this. 

"Sherlock Holmes." The name still fits nicely in John's mouth. It travels from the edge of his lips to the base of his tongue, then back again. Sherlock Holmes. He could get used to saying it. 

"Well done. Lestrade?" 

"Yeah."

"Did he tell you anything else?"

"No, the rest I worked out myself." 

"Really? How so?" Sherlock raises his eyebrow and leans back into his chair, raising a glass of wine to his lips. 

"I _noticed_." 

"Go on," Sherlock smirks. 

"You're a chemist with a special interest in biology. You regularly conduct experiments on human body parts which you procure from a woman called Molly at St Barts hospital. She fancies you, but you've either not noticed, or you don't care enough to do anything about it. And you live at 221B Baker Street."

Sherlock's eyes widen a little at the edges, his wine glass hovering halfway between the table and his mouth. 

"Impressive." 

"The Science of deduction. Nice title." 

Sherlock's eyes soften a little in understanding. Not another genius, just well researched. 

"Thank you. I gather you found my address and the evidence of my chemistry degree from there. Molly has obviously commented on the forum about Barts. How did you know she fancies me?" 

John's mouth twitches at the corner. So he had noticed, he just wasn't doing anything about it. 

"Mike Stamford." 

"Stamford?" 

"Old friend." 

"Ah, you must have trained together." 

"Yeah, at King's." 

"Well, John Watson. Consider me impressed. You've done your research." 

John's heart flutters in his chest, and he's filled with a stillness he's not felt for a long time. 

"How did you know my name?" He asks, running his tongue over his bottom lip. 

Sherlock doesn't reply, instead fishing around in his pocket and pulling out a turquoise and navy card with John's face on it. 

"I pick-pocketed your Oyster card when I hugged you." 

John laughs, a bellowing chortle that attracts the attention of a few nearby tables. Sherlock joins in, his a little more reserved, but a laugh all the same. 

"I should have known it was that simple." 

*

The cold air is a shock when they leave the restaurant. John's breath pillows in front of him, and he pulls his coat closer, glad for the thick jumper beneath.

"Are you going to disappear mysteriously again?" He asks, trying to suppress the shiver running through his nerves. 

"Do you want me to?" 

"No." He's aware he spoke to quickly, eager to keep hold of the man in front of him. Sherlock smirks, noticing. 

"Good. I'll text you." He starts walking backwards, digging his hands deep into his pockets. 

"You don't even have my number!" John calls after him.

"No, but you have mine." His coat swirls around him as he turns, not missing a beat to turn his collar up against the wind. 

John bites his lip, holding back a grin. This man will be the death of him. 


	4. Ecliptic Sun

The texts start almost immediately. 

**You never gave me my oyster back —** **John**

**You'll have to come and get it then. SH**

John finds his heart lurching each time he hears the ringtone. He makes a habit of carrying his phone around in his pocket, within reaching distance the second the screen lights up with a new message. There are periods where there is nothing; empty silence on the end of the line, and, in these moments, John feels his skin begin to twitch again. The storm in his head creeps into the spaces between, analysing himself from all angles. But then another text arrives and it's quiet once more. God, he feels sixteen again, hanging onto Tiana Rose's every word. It's been a long time since he was excited about someone like this; at least before his deployment. He's had girlfriends, plenty of those, but sometimes they were just people to pass the time; women he found attractive that wanted him back. The last time he was this captivated with someone was in his third year of university. Mary Morstan. They started as friendly rivals in their army training group, constantly trying to best each other in the fitness tests and clinical skills lab. It helped to have someone else's score to aspire towards, rather than trying to beat his own times. The pair fell into an easy friendship, hanging out after classes and studying together in the library. Eventually, it became something more, both of them easing into the other's bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They fought and fucked and laughed and cried together, but it was the most real thing John had. It was amazing to have someone to lean back on; another person who understood his drive and journey in life. Unfortunately, that was also their downfall. 

Mary was a year above, so she completed her officer training before John. The night before she left, they held each other tight and promised to never forget. And that was it for them. Neither wanted to ruin their experience with the empty promise of maintaining a relationship across borders and war zones. 

She could be anywhere now. When John was first discharged, he'd thought about contacting her, seeing if she was still deployed, but the thought was too painful. He wasn't the same person as when they met, and chances were, neither was she. In different circumstances, it could have been perfect. She could have been the one he settled with, the one he followed society's heteronormative script with. Somehow, he knows that's not true, even if they hadn't both been deployed. Neither of them would have been satisfied with what that life could have given them. 

Once he graduated and was stationed in Afghanistan, the army became his life. He didn't have the drive to find a steady partner, nor the time if he'd wanted to. There were endless casual hookups and one night stands, but no-one he was serious about. No-one who made his stomach flutter and his heart race. Not until now. 

In hindsight, he understands that the feelings he'd had about men in his teens were not strictly platonic. Back then, he'd brushed it off as horny teenage behaviour, but now that he looks back, it's evident to him that these were the starts of his crushes. He wants to smack himself around the head at how oblivious he's been; how many opportunities he's lost. But a smaller part of him wonders if he needed to be this person, to have lived this life so far, to actually understand his queerness. 

He'll never know.

*

The surgery that he interviewed for calls him back, offering him a locum position. It's not much, but they pay well enough to keep him in London for a few more weeks. Between the commutes and the long hours writing prescriptions and taking notes, John lives for the moments when a text lights up his screen, proclaiming _'Bored!'_ or asking John for obscure facts about the human body. There's an undertone of flirtation in each text — Sherlock has a bluntness that John rather enjoys. There's nothing obscene, nothing John couldn't read aloud at work, but it's enough for him to hide a smirk behind his hand whilst reading them on the tube. The flirtation comes naturally, as if they've been doing it for years. 

*

It's a Sunday morning before they see each other in person again. John wakes to a flurry of messages, one after the other.

**221B Baker Street, come at once if convenient.**

**If inconvenient, come anyway.**

**Could be dangerous.**

**SH**

He dresses quickly, only stopping long enough to wolf down some cereal and grab an apple off the counter. He finishes it on the way to the station, boarding at East Finchley, changing at Kings Cross onto the circle line. His hands begin to clench again, nerves starting to get the better of him. He shakes them out as he walks down Baker Street, scanning the building doors for numbers. There, at the far end, it's door standing proud against the beige building, is 221.

The knocker, heavy and cold to touch, makes a satisfying sound against the wooden door as he knocks. As he waits for someone to answer, he takes a step back and surveys the building. Curtains flutter out the open window of the floor above, the sound of a violin spilling into the street below. John is mesmerised by the sound, startled only by the door being swung open. 

An older lady stands on the other side, dressed head to toe in purple. She's very slight, and as she stands she favours one leg more than the other — the telltale sign of someone with a bad hip. 

"Hi, um, I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes?" John worries for a second that he's got the address wrong, but no — the door clearly says 221. 

"Oh, come on in dear. Sherlock said you'd be coming. He's just upstairs." She hurries him inside, waving him up the stairs and shutting the door with a heavy thud behind him. "Go straight on up, Dr Watson." 

The handrail is smooth beneath his fingers, and the steps creak as he ascends. John thinks he hears the music pause as he walks, but it's so short that he's not entirely sure he didn't imagine it. When he reaches the top, the door in front of him is open, revealing a modest-sized sitting room that looks like it should be part of a museum. Papers clutter every surface; books are piled high in each corner, interspersed with artefacts and knick-knacks that would put his grandmother to shame. His eyes are particularly drawn to the sword resting on the table, standing bold on the polished wood. 

Sherlock stands at the window, facing out onto the street; violin raised to his chin. He rushes the last few notes, letting the instrument fall to his thigh as he taps the bow on his shoulder. 

"There's been another one." He says without turning to face John. 

"Sorry?"

"There's been another murder. Same as Daniel Murphy." Sherlock spins round and sets the violin back into its case, before climbing over the coffee table to stand by the wall on John's right. He notices, for the first time, that it is covered in sheets of paper and string. John walks forward to stand next to Sherlock, shrugging his jacket off and taking in the information pinned to the wall. 

In the centre is a cluster of images, each showing a body carved with a different symbol. John recognises the middle one as Daniel Murphy, two zig-zagged lines carved deep into his chest. The three photos surrounding Murphy are of different people, a man and two women, both decorated with a unique symbol. The man and one of the women are lying on a steel mortuary benches like Murphy. Both have symbols carved deep into the flesh, spread from one pectoral muscle to their stomachs. The man bears a double-pointed arrow, the woman a semicircle with two circles at either end. The final victim, a red-haired woman, is lying on grass, her wound covered in blood. It spills into the crevices of her symbol and paints her stomach red. This time, the sign is of a large, curly 'M'. 

"Did they all die the same way?" John asks, leaning closer to the photos to get a better look at the symbol. 

"Yes. Asphyxiation by choking on their own vomit, and the blood surrounding these two isn't theirs." He points and two victims spread on the steel benches.

"And this one?" John gestures to the photo of the woman outdoors. 

"She's only just been found. It's unlikely to be hers, but I'll have to wait for a DNA check to be sure." 

"Is there anything that connects them?" 

"Not that I can see. Each victim is in a different age bracket. ID on the body says that the recent victim is Scarlett Underwood, aged 19. Murphy was 29, the other man, Joseph Rookwood, was 41. Dorothy Patterson was 23. Murphy and Underwood are both White-British, Patterson Black-British, and Rookwood is British-Jamaican. None of them work at the same place; have the same sexuality or live anywhere near each other. As far as I can see, nothing connects them." 

"So, it's a mystery." 

"Yes. Isn't it wonderful?" Sherlock's eyes light up, a devious grin spreading across his face. He steps over the coffee table again and grabs his coat from one of the armchairs by the fire, swirling it dramatically around him as he pulls it on. 

"Come on, Lestrade's asked me to come to the crime scene. I thought you might be able to help." The silent plea for John's company sits behind his eyes. As much as he scolds himself for being excited to see a dead body, John can't help but grab his jacket and follow Sherlock out of the door. 

Sherlock hails a cab once they're outside; John slightly in awe at how fast he manages to find one. The detective holds the cab door open for him before sliding into the seat beside him. 

"Do the zodiac symbols mean anything? Is there a pattern to which one is on each body?" John asks, trying to keep his mind off how tauntingly close they are sat. 

"Not as far as I can tell. Only Murphy's symbol matches up with the month he was killed, and the symbols don't match with their birthdays or the date the blood was donated." 

"Murphy was at Rupert Street the night he died, is there a connection there?" 

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. Family members have reported that Rookwood had only returned from visiting friends in Surrey the day he was murdered. That evening CCTV footage shows him at Electric Ballroom in Camden, before he was found dead just outside of Primrose Hill." 

"Why did you invite me?" 

Sherlock glances up at John, pausing at the sudden change in direction. 

"You're a doctor. You've seen plenty of death — your insight on the case would be invaluable to me." 

"Why did you really invite me?" 

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curls upwards. 

"Because I wanted you here. You're intelligent, you found out about me with just a name. You have a healthy fascination with the macabre — you found the Murphy scene without me and weren't put off when I invited you to dinner." 

John nods, once, turning to look out of the window at the passing cars. 

"And because I said dangerous, and here you are." 

*

Scarlett Underwood was found at six o’clock that morning by an elderly man walking his dog. He had been startled, to say the least, when the corgi had sprinted out of the bushes barking to high heaven; paws streaked with blood. Both the man and his dog are long gone by the time Sherlock and John arrive at the scene, but the bloody paw prints are still evident across the damp ground. 

Sherlock lifts the police tape up as they approach, allowing John to walk straight under. They get halfway to the body before a police officer stops them. 

"Uh, what's he doing here, freak?" says Sergeant Donovan. She's dressed in blue today — fitted trousers paired with a white shirt and navy jacket. 

"He's with me." 

"You're not supposed to be here, let alone someone you've dragged off the street—"

"I said, he's with me," Sherlock growls. John stifles a smirk as Donovan raises her hands in mock surrender and steps aside to let them past. 

"Am I actually allowed to be here?" John asks, half jogging to keep up with the detective's longer legs. 

"It's fine." 

"If you say so."

"I do." 

Scarlet Underwood lies half-hidden in the bushes, blonde hair fanning around her head; matted with vomit. Blood has begun to stain the grass brown as it drips off her stomach and congeals on the soil. 

John swallows as he looks the body up and down, preparing for the possibility of an adverse reaction. It doesn't come. He had expected to feel a wave of nausea or the flash of memories past, but instead, he feels incredibly normal. The sight of the dead woman doesn't bother him — it's just another corpse in the endless parade. 

John catches Sherlock glancing at him from the corner of his eye. He'd obviously been braced for the possibility that John's PTSD could rear its ugly head. Unlike John, however, Sherlock seems unsurprised when it doesn't. 

"Ah, Sherlock, you're finally here." Lestrade peels off from a group of uniformed officers, walking over to stand on Sherlock's right. 

"Dr Watson," Lestrade merely nods at John in acknowledgement. "We've not found any new information since this morning, and as far as we can tell she's almost identical to the others, just with a different zodiac symbol." 

"Donor blood?" 

"Labs should be back tomorrow, but I think it's safe to assume so."

Sherlock pulls a face that implies he's unhappy about the assumption but doesn't say anything, instead extracting a collapsible magnifying glass from his pocket and beginning to examine the body. 

John watches with faint amusement as Sherlock crouches low and examines every inch of the corpse. It's odd seeing six foot of gangly detective folded so close to the ground. Yet most people, John thinks, would look clumsy — awkwardly avoiding stepping in blood puddles. But Sherlock looks almost graceful. He knows where every inch of his body is, carefully balancing his centre of gravity to hover over the body without touching it. It's beautiful to watch. 

"So, you found him again, huh?" Lestrade's voice shakes John from his blind focus.

"Oh, yeah. Turns out we have a mutual friend." 

"Small world, huh." 

There's a heavy pause as they both watch the detective work. Lestrade must have seen Sherlock do this a thousand times, yet his eyes still hold the same amazement as John's. 

"Why does Sergeant Donovan call him 'freak'?" John is surprised at himself when he blurts out the question. It hadn't been consciously on his lips — he never intended to ask. He swallows his surprise, however, trying to seem casual in his curiosity. 

Lestrade sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"I've tried to get her to stop. He probably got under her skin once, you've seen how he deduces people. She won't tell me exactly what happened." 

John nods. He could see how having your life story announced to the world would make some people agitated. Still, he silently disagrees with Donovan's analysis. 

"You like him, don't you?" Lestrade's sly smile sends a wave of embarrassment down John's spine, and his face warms at the edges. 

"We're friends, yes." 

"You know that's not what I mean." 

John sighs and Lestrade's smile spreads into a grin. He had hoped it wasn't quite so obvious, at least not to anyone but Sherlock, but there's no point denying it now. He can feel fists forming at his hips, but he forces himself to relax. This is just office chit-chat. There's nothing wrong here. 

"Is this where you give me the 'you hurt him and there'll be consequences' talk?"

Lestrade lifts his hands in mock offence, grinning all the while. 

"I don't think I need to, do you?" 

"No, I don't think you do." 

"Have you told him?" Lestrade asks.

"God, no. But he's Sherlock, I'm sure he knew before I did." 

"I wouldn't be so sure." 

John raises an eyebrow and Lestrade shrugs. 

"I'm just saying, don't assume. You never know." 

John's reply is interrupted by the man in question striding back over to meet them. He doesn’t wait until he’s stood completely in front of them before he starts speaking, his voice laced with a hint of annoyance. 

"We need to see where she lives. There's a photo of her girlfriend as her phone background, we might as well speak to her. I doubt she knows anything, but it's worth being sure. We might be able to pinpoint why she was in the area." He pulls his phone out and starts typing in the address, not pausing to stop as he walks past the observing pair. Lestrade sighs as he follows, stopping on one side of the tape whilst Sherlock holds it up for John to pass to the other. 

"How did you get into her phone? It would have been locked, wouldn’t it?" Lestrade asks, confusion creasing into his face. 

"It's fingerprint protected. It wasn't hard." Sherlock barely looks up from his phone. 

"You mean — "John chokes back a laugh as he sees the cogs turn in Lestrade's head. The DI's nose wrinkles as he folds his arms closer to himself in disgust. 

"Oh, get over yourself Lestrade, you've seen plenty of corpses." 

"You should see his kitchen." John quips. Sherlock shoots him a half-hearted glare, and John raises an eyebrow in defence. 

"Right, well. We'll head over to the girlfriend's this afternoon, once Scarlett's been processed. I'll let you know when we're heading over and you can interview her." The shadow of disgust is still painted across Lestrade’s face as he turns and walks away. 

*

Scarlett Underwood's house is unremarkable. The top floor of a run-down council estate, the place screams of student accommodation. Her partner, Emily, is sat next to a uniformed officer in the joint living room/bedroom, her eyes red and a crumpled tissue in hand. She answers the questions with a forlorn detachment, pausing every now and then to swallow down tears. 

"Was she part of any societies or sports clubs?" Sherlock's voice is oddly soft. John's never seen this side of him before, and his heart flutters. Despite Sally's remarks, the man is more human than most John's met. 

Emily shakes her head, dabbing at a wet spot beneath her nose. 

"Her course keeps her quite busy — sorry, kept — " she stifles another sob, "and she worked for the student union, so she never had time to join a regular club. She went to the gym sometimes, though." 

"The uni one?"

"No, it's not very big. Scarlett used the twenty-four-hour one down on Camden Mews. Ecliptic Sun, I think it was called." 

Something flickers behind Sherlock's eyes, but it's gone before John has a chance to identify it. 

"Thank you for your time, Miss Torres." 

"What are you so happy about?" John asks as they exit the building. Sherlock steers them towards the main road, waving down a cab as they walk. 

"Ecliptic is another word for the line the zodiac constellations form in the sky. The position of the sun in relation to this line is how people used to be to tell what season it was. It's where the concept of astrology comes from." 

"The gym? You think that's what connects them?" 

"It's dangerous to assume without all the facts, but it's a possibility." The cab door snaps shut behind them, and Sherlock immediately whips out his phone, the dim glow of the screen spotlighting his face. "It's a chain, and Joseph Rookwood was clearly a bodybuilder; he must have gone somewhere." 

"Well, I hope you're right." 

*

Hours later, as darkness settles into Lestrade's office, John is pulled from his daydream by the sound of a file hitting the table. 

"Nothing. Rookwood and Underwood both use the same gym, but Murphy doesn't have any subscriptions." 

"Couldn't he have used it on an ad hoc basis?" 

"No, it's membership only." He fists a hand into his hair. "There has to be something." 

"You'll find it." John means to sound reassuring, but Sherlock sends him a scowl all the same. 

They head back to Baker Street, Sherlock buzzing with frustration. The second they walk through the door he throws himself back into the case, pinning more things to the walls and spreading himself out on the floor. John lingers on the periphery, making tea that Sherlock only half drinks, and watching him with a hint of amusement. There's not much for him to do — his intellectual powers are nothing like the detective’s. 

At just past midnight, he excuses himself from the flat, planning to catch some sleep before his morning shift at the surgery. Instead, he finds himself staring at the ceiling, his brain refusing to relax. He's unsure of his place in this arrangement. What is it that Sherlock needs from him? They're still tiptoeing around each other, both painfully aware of the sparking tension between them but neither wanting to take the first step. At first, it was fun, navigating their boundaries and casually flirting, but now it's becoming exhausting. He wants more — wants to take more, but somehow he can't bring himself to do it. If this were anyone else, he would have gone for it, best foot forward, but Sherlock feels different. It's not just that he's a bloke — which if he's honest, John admits his lack of experience in that field is adding to his anxiety — it's that he's Sherlock. This isn't some quick fix, there's no way he can rush something this unique. John is terrified of fucking up, losing Sherlock altogether, rather than gaining something more. But he can't go on like this. 

It's three am when the text arrives, and John is still staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to claim him. 

**Thank you for the tea. SH**

He smiles into the darkness, placing the phone back on his bedside table. Maybe it's not as hopeless as he thought. Perhaps, if he pushes himself, he can take the risk. _After the case_ , he reasons with himself. Once Sherlock has returned from the single-minded obsession with this zodiac killer, he'll make a move. 

After the case.


	5. Temptation

Sherlock stays awake for days, rifling through the paperwork and trying to find a connection. 221B becomes a bomb site of files; the floor an assault course to navigate. Everything seems to belong in a very specific place, and John quickly learns to leave it alone, preferring to make tea and act as a soundboard for Sherlock's deductions. So far, he seems to have established the victim's normal patterns, the day jobs they had and any regular standing appointments. To John, they seem like completely independent people; other than the initial gym lead there is nothing substantial that connects them. 

John stays as long as he can, only venturing home when his body reaches exhaustion. On the days he has to work, he comes straight to 221B from the surgery, and it's only because of his love of sleep that he doesn't drop by in the mornings. 

When the letter arrives, John is not surprised. A small part of him had been expecting it, the screaming eviction notice that drops through his letterbox on Monday morning. He still can't find another job, and the hours at the surgery are not enough to pay his rent. It doesn't help that his efforts have been severely muted by all the time spent with the world's only consulting detective. It almost seems unfair to be paying full rent for somewhere he spends so little time these days. Still, he has another month to find the cash before he has to move out of the city for good. Harry has offered him a room at her house in Chelmsford, but he dreads moving back to the town he worked his entire life to get away from, and the sister he loves but can't spend too much time around. The only upside is that he will be closer to his mother's grave; he's felt bad not visiting for so long.

John knows he needs to tell Sherlock, but with the case absorbing most of his attention, he's not sure how. Besides, John isn't sure exactly what to say; how to break the news that their days together are numbered. 

A week passes, and Sherlock still hasn't found any leads. He's as absorbed as ever, sitting still for hours on end, pouring himself over the piles of papers on the floor. The first sign of defeat is when he actually sleeps — John nearly does a double-take when he walks in one evening to find the detective sprawled out on the sofa, sunk into a deep sleep. John tiptoes into the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea as quietly as possible, determined not to wake the sleeping Sherlock. He needn't have worried, even when John drops his mug on the floor he doesn't stir. Whether this is normal, or Sherlock is just so sleep deprived from the last few weeks, John can't tell. 

He settles himself on the floor in the clear island of space between the chaos. He can't understand Sherlock's organisational system, but he reads through the papers nearest to him. He can't kid himself that he'll see something Sherlock hasn't already, but he's curious as to how far the detective has got. Something snags in the back of his mind, but he can't place his finger on what it is. It's on the tip of his tongue, threatening to break free from his lips, but his mind can't quite focus on the words. 

"It's something obvious, I know it."

John jumps out of his skin, spilling tea down his jumper and onto the floor.

"Fuck, sorry." He apologises, placing the mug on the table behind him and stripping his jumper off, dabbing at the spilt tea on the floor, relieved that none landed on the papers. 

Sherlock's brow crumples with concern as he sits up, tucking his feet beneath him. "Are you okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah. The jumper is quite thick, it didn't burn." John blushes slightly, thankful he was wearing a t-shirt underneath.

"Here," Sherlock reaches his hand out, and John passes the jumper to him. Sherlock drapes it over the nearby radiator, taking exceptional care to make sure it is spread out completely. There's a tranquil silence, both regarding each other in the space. Their roles feel reversed — Sherlock observing from the sofa, and John searching through the evidence. It's strange, a peaceful upheaval that leaves a contentedness in his stomach. It's time to face the thing he's been avoiding. He clears his throat.

"Hey, so um — I might have to move out of London soon." 

Sherlock raises his head in alarm, straightening his spine and blinking excessively, as if trying to process the information. 

"Turns out you actually need to pay rent, which is, uh, inconvenient." John gives a nervous laugh; a half-hearted attempt to lighten the situation.

Sherlock says nothing for a moment, he simply sits and looks John up and down. After a long pause, where John starts to twitch with anticipation, he scratches his cheek and rests his chin on his knuckles. 

"You could move in here." 

John’s heart skips a beat, stuttering against his ribcage. 

"Really?"

"Yes, it makes sense. We could share the rent. You help me with cases, and if you made your blog public that would attract private clients and we could share the profits. Like...business partners." 

Business partners. That is far from what John actually wants to be, but the idea is not unwelcome. 

"How did you know about the blog?" He tilts his head as his brow crumples. 

"Of course I know about the blog, John. What else would all your notes be for? And I can tell by the marks on your wrists that you've been leaning at a desk, typing — "

"You saw it on my phone, didn't you."

"You should really close your tabs once you've finished with them." Sherlock concedes, raising an eyebrow suggestively. John lets out a bark of laughter. 

"You're a cock sometimes, you know that, right?" 

Sherlock just smirks into his tea. 

"So, what do you think?" He asks, taking a sip. 

"That would be — nice. Yeah, I'd like that." 

The beam Sherlock emits almost melts John's heart. He'd promised himself to wait until after the case, when the threat of a serial killer isn't hanging over their heads, but he finds himself filled with a slither of unexpected confidence. Sherlock is inviting him into his space — asking him to take a more active part in his life. If that isn't the sign that John's been waiting for, then he doesn't know what is. Still, he can't help the gnawing self-doubt that he's reading more into this than he should. 

He questions himself again, unsettled by this apprehension that keeps overwhelming him. He's never been the shy one in a relationship, he's not afraid to ask for what he wants, but something about this is different. Is he afraid to take the leap because he knows that once he does, he will become utterly consumed by the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes? Once he gives himself over to the detective, there's no going back. Every day he feels himself falling a little harder, his heart beating a little faster. He has memorised the different expressions Sherlock uses when studying a crime scene — he can tell what direction Sherlock's brain is moving in based on the slight twitch of each muscle in his face. The masseter contracts and tenses his jaw whenever a theory is ruled out, and the lateral oculi muscles tense when he dips into his mind palace for a fragment of information. 

John feels giddy whenever Sherlock laughs, and he finds himself cracking jokes and making sly comments just to hear a whisper of it. John can tell whenever Sherlock is hungry — despite his protestations — and has figured out the best way to sneak food into Sherlock without him noticing that he's eating. (Sweet things; biscuits with tea, the odd danish as they move through London. John pretends they are for him, and acts very offended when Sherlock steals bites.) 

Sherlock is a master at solving crimes, but John is quickly becoming a master at solving Sherlock. 

John reluctantly heads home that night and immediately packs up his few belongings, then moves to sit in the hallway to steal his neighbour's WiFi and e-mail notice of leave to his landlord. He makes his blog public after a glass of brandy and simultaneously hopes no-one and everyone will read it. If he had internet inside the bedsit, he's sure he would be checking the hit counter every few minutes, but it's cold in the hallway, so he stays tucked safely in his bed. Sherlock texts him around midnight. 

**Anyone would think you fancied me, the way you describe me in your blog. SH**

John's stomach leaps. Before he has time to think, before he can stop himself with flimsy excuses of waiting after a case which could take months to solve — he types out his reply and hits send. His heart leaps in his chest, regretting the words the moment they've left his fingertips, yet there's also a feeling of satisfaction — a sense of reclaiming himself after months of unsureness. 

**Is it that obvious? J**

Sherlock never replies, which isn't entirely unusual, but John spins the words over and over in his head, dissecting them and panicking that he said the wrong thing. He feels like a bloody teenager again. In the morning, after only a few hours of restless sleep, dreaming of consulting detectives and Baker Street, he dresses quickly and grabs his bags. The taxi ride seems to take hours, John's stomach twisting over and over as they get nearer to central London. What if Sherlock changed his mind? What if he misread the situation completely, and he gets there to find the locks have been changed and he's no longer welcome? 

As it turns out, he needn't have worried. When he finally arrives at Baker Street, the detective is the one to open the door. 

"Hello," John says, letting out a breath. His hands are starting to curl at his waist, and he wiggles his fingers to let out the tension. 

"Hello." Sherlock smiles and leads the way up the stairs, taking them two at the time. John chuckles. When they enter the flat, he feels like he's seeing it for the first time. Everything is the same; papers cluttered over every surface, the sword in the centre of the table, Sherlock's violin abandoned in its case on the sofa, yet there's an odd quality to the room, as if everything has shifted slightly. It's _theirs_ now. This room is their living room, their fireplace is set into the far wall, with their chairs placed next to it. 

Sherlock hovers by the window, hands fidgeting in his pockets. His eyes follow John’s around the room, as if this sudden shift is visible to him. 

"Mrs Hudson said there's another bedroom upstairs." John's eyes flicker to the staircase as he says it. He's never seen the other room, always staying within the confines of the second floor when he'd visited previously. 

"If you want it." Sherlock’s voice dips mid-sentence, a shadow of apprehension creeping into his words. 

"If I want it?" John tries to hide the mirroring hitch in his voice, but it only serves to make him sound more panicked than intended. He scolds himself, forcing his shoulders to relax and seem less defensive. He is surprised at the proposition, not because he wasn't expecting this conversation to arrive, but because he hadn't expected it to be so soon. Or for it to come from Sherlock. 

"Well, I was thinking — if you wanted — "

"Yes." John blurts, unable to tame his tongue. The corners of his mouth curl, and across the morning-dressed room, Sherlock’s give an echoing twitch.

"You don't even know what I was going to say." 

"Go on then." 

"I was going to say you could sleep on the sofa." Sherlock tries to keep his face a facade of annoyance, but John notices the slip of a smirk at the edge of his lips. John bites his lip to stop himself grinning. 

"No, you weren't." 

"No, I wasn't." 

John drops his bag by the door and takes a deep breath of courage. _Now or never, Watson._

"Aren't we doing this the wrong way round?" he asks, purposefully relaxing his shoulders and opening up his body. His voice drops, low and sultry, making no effort to hide the flirtation. 

"How so?"

"Well, I thought people normally do other things before they start sharing a bed."

"Like what?" Sherlock challenges, but there is no curiosity in his tone. The words are playful, a gentle nudge of encouragement from one man to another. It sends a shiver down John's spine, settling in the base of his groin. 

"Like this," John steps forward and wraps his hands around Sherlock's waist, his heart threatening to break out of his chest. There's a pause where they make eye contact, a silent affirmation passing between them, before John's gaze drops to the detective's mouth, and he reaches forward to close the gap. 

Sherlock's lips are soft on his, tentative at first, but becoming more sure by the second. His arms slide over John's back, pausing briefly over the puckered skin of his shoulder before coming to rest in the centre of his spine. John pulls him closer, their hips lying flush against each other. For the first time in months, John feels as if he can breathe again. 

They stay entwined together for what feels like hours, drinking each other in. John begins to forget where he ends and the detective begins, the outlines of their bodies becoming blurred in the morning light. When finally they surface, neither pulls away, instead leaning their foreheads together to maintain the contact. John lets his mouth part, panting a little, and his eyes flutter open. Sherlock's usually pristine curls are in disarray; evidence of John clutching at them in their fervour. Something pulls at John’s stomach, a carnal hunger awakened by the evidence of their desire.

"Is that any better?" Sherlock rumbles, his eyes still closed, basking in John's glow. He runs his hands around John's waist, lifting the fabric of his shirt slightly to brush at the skin beneath. 

"I think you should do it again, just to be sure." 

Sherlock's breath tickles John's nose as he sighs with amusement, before he leans forward and takes John by the mouth once more. 

*

The next few days are spent curled around each other, settling into the new routine of two bodies in Baker Street rather than one. Most of the time, they are inseparable; maintaining some sort of contact regardless of what they're doing. There's a desperate quality to it, as if they are terrified the other will vanish if they lose touch for a second; the fragile state of any new relationship. 

They are pulled from their cocoon only by Lestrade, calling to inform them of another victim. 

Sherlock is jumpy when they get out of the cab at Caledonian Road. It's a jarring transformation compared to the tranquillity of the past few days — the consulting detective is practically bouncing off the pavement, his eyes focusing unflinchingly on the beacon of blue tape in the distance. It takes a while for John to realise what's wrong. 

The bodies are becoming more frequent, and Sherlock still hasn't solved it. John curses under his breath, annoyed at himself for not realising it sooner. Compared to the other cases they've had, this is by far the longest. Four bodies in and they still have no suspects. John feels comfortable knowing that the yard has people working on it, but he's starting to realise the effect it's having on Sherlock. He's been distracted, focusing too heavily on the unfolding of their relationship, but it must be driving Sherlock wild. 

Lestrade meets them at the perimeter of the scene, a scowl etched into his face. 

"Kobi McKenna. Cis male, 24, cancer symbol on his chest. Everything is the same as the others as far as I can tell." He crosses his arms over his chest. "Sherlock, we need something soon, this is attracting far too much attention."

"I know." Sherlock's eyes flash with an echo of something, but it's gone before John can identify what it is. He stalks over to the body, analysing it with a perfunctory air, without a hint of the elegance of before. John hangs back, not wanting to provide another distraction. After a minute, Sherlock looks over his shoulder, seemingly searching for the doctor. He gives a slight flick of his head, and John wanders over, hesitant. He doesn't see his place here — doesn't understand what he can bring other than distraction. 

"What do you think?" Sherlock asks. There's a bite in his voice, and it makes something inside John wither. He gives the body a brief once over, checking for correlations to the others, before stepping back again. 

"He looks exactly the same as the rest. Asphyxiation by choking on his vomit, the symbol was cut through the clothes whilst he was still alive. No signs of a struggle." 

Sherlock almost growls, causing John to take a tentative step back.

"Lestrade, have you been in contact with the family yet?" Sherlock calls over his shoulder to where the DI is standing, watching. Lestrade gives an empathetic glance at John, noting his awkwardness, before turning back to the taller man. 

"Yes, we sent some officers over this morning. No partner, just a couple of flatmates and extended family. We're getting statements from them this afternoon." 

"I want to speak to them, are they coming to the yard?"

"Yeah, they will be. Let me give you a ride." 

*

They spend the rest of the day interviewing family members and searching McKenna's place of residence. Sherlock's mood darkens as the hours tick past, irritated that no leads have appeared. By the time they finish, alone in Lestrade's office, he's worked himself into a fury. 

John sits on the visitor's chair, his hand clenched in his lap. He wants to go over to Sherlock, sitting at the desk, and kiss away the worry lines that have accumulated at his brow. More than anything, John wants to wrap the detective in his arms and assure him that everything is okay. They might not have any new leads, but they have Sherlock's brain, and if anyone can solve the case, he can. Instead, he stays sat in the chair, ignoring the hunger pangs eating at his stomach and running through the details of the case in a desperate attempt to find a lead Sherlock could have missed. 

"What about workmen? They could get invited into the house, completely unknown to the victims, then maybe they could have followed them?"

"None of the victim's bank statements showed that they'd paid for any services." 

"Okay, could it have been random? They just happened to walk past the killer? You know, wrong place wrong time?"

"You said it yourself, none of the bodies looked like they'd struggled. Combined with the asphyxiation, it looks as if they've been drugged. That suggests pre-meditation." 

"Can you trace the drug?" 

"It's ketamine combined with diazepam. Anyone with a medical background could get hold of it, but Lestrade's trying to trace which hospitals have increasingly depleted stocks."

"That's good, right?" John's voice is tentative, "We can trace where they work?" 

"Yes, but that's assuming they acquired the drug from a London hospital, and it's not definitive." Sherlock sighs. "It would be supportive evidence, but it's not enough to make an arrest."

Silence falls between them, only interrupted by Sherlock tapping his fingers on the desk. 

"Sorry," John blurts, shifting back further into his seat.

"For what?" 

"Being unhelpful. I feel like I've been more of a distraction these past few days." 

Sherlock groans, rubbing his hand over his face. 

"Don't be stupid. You are a welcome distraction. As a conductor of light, you are unbeatable." 

John doesn't ask what that means. 

"I just don't feel like I'm actually helping."

Sherlock stands and walks over to John's chair. He crouches in front of the doctor, taking John's hands in his own, running a thumb over his palms to relax the muscles. John hadn't realised how hard he was clenching them until his fists are released, sending waves of relief along his wrists. 

"If you don't want to be here, that's fine, I'm not going to make you. But I do want you with me. You keep me grounded, and I will never wish you were anywhere else than beside me." 

The earnestness in Sherlock's eyes makes John's heart skip a beat, and he lifts his hand to brush an errant curl out of Sherlock's face. It's enough to chase away the shadows of worry that had nestled in his gut. He stands, pulling Sherlock up with him, and places a delicate kiss to his lips, melting as he feels the detective wrap his arms around him. 

"Let's go home, and you can distract me again." Sherlock murmurs into his ear, his lips brushing against John's earlobe. It sends a shiver down John's spine, settling deep between his legs. 

"Gladly." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter officially marks over 100,000 words posted to AO3! Woo! Here's to the next 100,000


	6. Swipe Right

John wakes to find the bed empty. A probing hand show's it's been vacant for a while -- the sheets are cold beneath his fingertips. He shouldn't be shocked, they are still in the middle of a case, after all. John lies with his eyes closed for a while, waiting for his brain to wake up. Once he can form a coherent thought, he throws on some pyjamas and creeps into the kitchen, unsurprised to find Sherlock sat on the back of his chair, lost in the depths of his mind palace. 

John flicks the kettle on and brews some tea, nudging Sherlock's cup into his hand to wake him from the depths of his mind. Any other time, he'd leave him be, but given that the last few weeks have been spent with Sherlock buried deep inside himself, he reasons that the detective is probably thinking in circles. 

Sherlock lets out a small sigh as he comes back to himself, hands clasping around the mug. He looks up gratefully, closing his eyes slightly as he takes the first sip. 

"Any new leads?" John asks. Sherlock gives a minuscule shake of his head as John hovers at his elbow, reading the papers over his shoulder. He's not sure what the boundaries are -- whether he's allowed to adorn physical affection in the middle of a case. The past few days had seemed to be an exception, Sherlock putting the case aside to focus on the newfound developments of their relationship, but now the rules seem to have changed. Sherlock has absorbed himself back into the work in full force, and John is unsure as to where he stands. 

His queries are answered by the feeling of Sherlock leaning sideways to rest his head on the top of John's thigh, closing his eyes again. John absent-mindedly lets his hands run through the mess of curls, massaging small circles into his skull.

They stay there for a minute, Sherlock almost purring under John's hands, before he sighs, opening his eyes and forcing himself upright. The message is clear; indulgence over -- it's time to focus. 

"Talk me through it," Sherlock demands softly, taking another sip of his tea. 

"Sorry?"

"Walk me through the details; sometimes it helps to have an outside perspective." He falls back into the main seat of the chair, crossing his legs, his knees falling over the armrests. "Oh, don't be like that, you know what I mean." Sherlock practically rolls his eyes when John crinkles his nose about being an 'outside perspective'. 

"Uh, sure. So there are five victims; Dorothy Patterson, Joseph Rookwood, Daniel Murphy, Scarlett Underwood, and Kobi McKenna. All of them were found outside, with large zodiac symbols carved through their clothes and into their chests. None of the symbols match. None of the victims worked at the same place or are the same age, McKenna and Underwood are both at uni, but the rest have full-time jobs." He reads the facts like a shopping list, unsure of where to start. Sherlock always seems to know which parts are relevant, but John can't figure out which pieces of information are actually useful. "None of them have ever connected via social media; have mutual friends or the same hobbies. Some are cis, some trans, some queer and some straight. There seems to be no pattern as to their personal identities. Most of them are single, and they were all found in different parts of London -- " 

"Wait, say that again!" Sherlock practically jumps out of his chair, his tea spilling slightly onto the floor, joining the stain John had already made. He clambers over to the table by the window and pulls his laptop open, typing furiously. 

"Um, they were all found in different parts of London?"

"No, before then." 

John wracks his brain, trying to remember what he'd said. 

"Oh, most of them are single." 

Sherlock grins, apparently having found what he was looking for. He spins the laptop around so John can read it, reaching into the pocket of his blue robe for his phone. The laptop is open at the government statistics website; an article on census information that John isn't sure of its relevance.

"Lestrade, I need access to their phones. Remote access will do; I just need to see what apps they've got installed." 

He hangs up dramatically, throwing the phone back onto his chair and whisking the laptop back from under John's nose. 

"I knew something was bothering me about the victims. Look at them. Most of them, except Scarlett, are single. I know there are only five of them, so the statistics aren’t perfect, but it’s still a lead."

"And?"

"And, according to the office for national statistics, 39% of the adult population is married or in cohabiting relationships. We only have one person in this group that fits that category." 

"So they're targeting single people?" 

"Essentially. Either the killer is doing it on purpose, which seems unlikely as Scarlett had a girlfriend, or it's a side effect of how they're being selected."

"I don't understand." John perches on the back of Sherlock's armchair, eyes scanning the detective's face for a clue on where his mind is going.

"Here," Sherlock opens the e-mail attachment from Lestrade, containing the software required to see the contents of their phones. He scrolls through the apps, grinning to himself when he finds the expected results. 

"What is one activity that mainly single people do, which requires them to talk to strangers?"

"Dating apps?"

"Exactly. The killer connects with them on a dating app, makes a connection, meets them for a date, and then kills them." 

"And what are the zodiac symbols for?"

"Perhaps the date they matched, I'd have to check to be sure." 

"That's amazing." 

Sherlock smirks and keeps trawling through the phones. John resists the urge to lean over and kiss him. 

"There -- both Murphy and Rookwood have an app called Blaze." He switches phone profiles and scrolls some more. "And here, so does Underwood, Patterson, and McKenna. Now just to look for common matches." 

The task turns out to take longer than expected. Baker Street is dark by the time Sherlock throws the laptop down in frustration. 

"Nothing. There's no connection." 

"Maybe you were wrong. Lots of people have Blaze; it's hardly a solid connection." John barely glances up from his book. 

"I'm never wrong." 

"I'd beg to differ." Sherlock raises an eyebrow and pulls the laptop back towards him. "Until last week you thought that the sun rotated around the earth." 

"Well that's different, it's not relevant to the work." Sherlock flaps his hand in dismissal. "Besides, how am I expected -- " Sherlock stops mid-sentence. John's stomach sinks. Sherlock never stops in the middle of a sentence. Ever. 

"What's wrong? Did you find a match?"

"No. Something else," he says softly, turning the laptop so John can see the screen. There, staring back at him, is a picture of him dressed in his army uniform. It takes a while for John's brain to catch up with what he's seeing; Sherlock has found his old profile. 

"Oh. I thought I'd deleted that." John's stomach becomes lighter, relief flooding through him. Nothing was wrong at all; Sherlock had just been startled to find John amongst the thousands of users. 

"You had a profile?" Sherlock asks, redundantly. 

"Yeah. You know, when you're on leave you don't have much time to date properly. This made it easier."

"The picture is recent." Sherlock accuses. 

"Sherlock, I don't know what to tell you. I haven't used it since we met. I'll delete it later." 

"No. Keep it. You never know when you'll need it next."

"Seriously? It's not a big deal. I don't understand why you're overreacting." John lets out a sigh and closes his book, resting it on the arm of the chair. 

"I'm not overreacting."

"Sherlock, you're the king of overreacting." 

"I am not." 

"Suit yourself." 

They fall into silence, Sherlock resuming scrolling through the contents of the victim's phones. For a minute, John thinks that's the end of the conversation. He reaches back for his book, but Sherlock speaks again before he can open it. 

"I just don't understand why you haven't got rid of it."

"God, Sherlock." He grabs his phone out of his pocket and starts redownloading the app. "I'll do it now if it's bothering you so much."

"It's not bothering me."

"It clearly is." It takes John a few tries to get his password right. He swipes to the account settings, scrolling to the bottom to find the delete button. He stops halfway down the page, one word catching his eye. 

"Is it because of the gender preference?" He asks, his softening. He'd only used the app once since he was discharged -- a feeble attempt to feel normal again. A change of photo was the only thing he'd felt comfortable doing.

Sherlock doesn't reply, refusing to look up from his laptop. 

"Because you know that's changed -- "

"I'm aware." 

"Okay." 

There's another pause as Sherlock avoids catching John's eye.

"You don't need to assert your sexuality to me; I'm perfectly aware -- " 

"Yeah, I'm aware. I just didn't know if it bothered you." 

He's answered by silence again. John scrolls all the way to the bottom of the page and presses the delete button. A quick ' _Are you sure?'_ message flashes on the screen before his profile is gone forever. 

"There. It's gone." 

No reply.

"Sherlock, talk to me." He stands, taking a tentative step towards the detective. "Why did it bother you so much?"

"What do you want me to say, John?" Sherlock explodes, "That's fine if you realise you've had enough of me? If you decide to run back to women because this isn't all you thought it would be?" 

"Whoah, where did that come from? Is that what you think -- that this is just for show? One day I'll wake up and go, 'Nah, I think I'm done with blokes, I'll go find a nice woman to shag instead.' " 

"Sometimes, yes!" 

Silence rings in John's ears as Sherlock's words echo around the room. They hit him like a lead weight -- knocking all the air out his chest. He knew some people felt this way, that his bisexuality was just a phase and one day he'd pick a side, but it hurts coming from Sherlock. From the one person who had helped everything make a little bit more sense. 

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock." His arms hang limply at his side, and his voice drops to a half-whisper. "Do you even know me at all?" 

"You know what, John, sometimes I'm not sure I do." 

It's the last straw. Something in John's gut bursts, and he's filled with the overwhelming need to get out. If he doesn't leave now, he's going to cry or punch something. He's not sure which is worse. 

"Fuck this. I don't need to hear this from you. I'm going for a walk."

Sherlock doesn't protest; he just throws himself onto the sofa in a huff. John grabs his jacket and takes the stairs two at a time, letting the door slam shut on his way out. He regrets it as soon as he steps out onto the street, remembering how late it is. Mrs Hudson is probably in bed by now. Although, given the racket they'd been making, he's doubtful she would have been able to sleep anyway. 

John wanders aimlessly, taking narrow side streets and winding alleyways, unconsciously tracing the routes Sherlock had shown him. 

How had they got here? Just yesterday morning they'd been laughing over breakfast, skin damp from their shared shower. It had seemed perfect. John was happy, the happiest he's been for a long time, and he had finally started to let himself believe that this was real. That this wasn’t all going to disappear in the blink of an eye. The rest of his days would be filled with endless cases and stolen kisses. And now -- it didn't bear thinking about. 

Had this been a mistake? Moving in with the man before actually having a relationship? He'd felt like they knew each other -- that they'd been on the same page the entire time. Apparently not. Was it all moving too fast? 

The jealousy; he could handle. Yes, Sherlock overacted, but it was something they could work through together. It was a tangible problem, one that John was sure would ebb with time. But the assumption that John was just here for the laughs? To tick a box on his bucket list before returning to his happy heterosexual life? That was different. He doesn’t know how he can heal that, or whether he even should. John has given himself over so completely to the detective, but there is only so far he can go for someone. He will not stoop to proving his identity, just to calm another person's insecurities. 

Finding Sherlock, John's mind had finally settled into a state of calm -- a settled sureness of his own emotions, and to have someone else question them was painful. He has his own self-doubt to worry about.   
  


John walks for hours. His shoulder becomes stiff, and his palms ache from digging his fingernails into the skin. When he looks up, he finds himself on Euston road, not far from the flat. Of course he's walked in a bloody circle. 

The flat is dark when he lets himself in. The stairs sound loud in the darkness, and he winces at each one, knowing for certain that Sherlock will be able to hear him coming back. The living room is empty, and John hovers by the kitchen, trying to decide what to do. He's not ready to talk yet. He's still fuming, and he's not entirely sure that he won't say things he'll regret if they try and finish the argument now. 

Sherlock is lying with his back to the door when John enters the bedroom. He can tell he's not asleep -- he's far too contained -- but he doesn't acknowledge when John comes into the room. John walks around the bed, grabbing his pillows and pyjamas from where he left them underneath, and exits the room again without saying a word. 

The sofa is hell on his shoulder, but John can't swallow his pride long enough to climb into bed. He briefly considers the bed upstairs, but that feels too far away. He’s not even sure what’s up there. He sleeps in fits and starts, eventually rising at six when he dresses back into his clothes from the day before. 

Sherlock emerges from his room close to nine, ignoring John as he flicks the kettle on and pointedly only pulls one mug from the cupboard. They stay in icy silence all morning, existing in their own bubbles until Sherlock finally gets dressed. He stops in the living room doorway, seemingly contemplating his words. 

"Lestrade called. They found another body."

"Okay." John makes no attempt to move from his chair. 

"I'm going to check it out, if you want --" Sherlock sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Please come." 

It's not an admission of defeat, not quite, but John doesn't miss the weary tone in his voice.   
  


They stay in silence on the cab ride over, pointedly not looking at each other, and Sherlock jumps out of the vehicle the minute it stops, leaving John to pay. Sherlock stays three strides ahead as they walk to the crime scene, deliberately not lifting the tape for John. His shoulder twinges as he lifts it over his head, but he hides the flinch from his face, not wanting to admit to Sherlock that it had been hard. It's only once they're fully on the scene John realises that it's only been days since the last one. 

The killer is starting to get cocky. 

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Lestrade calls out with a superficial cheeriness. John can see the dark circles under his eyes, the coffee in Lestrade's hand doing nothing to hide the exhaustion in his face. 

"Anything different?" Sherlock asks, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves. 

"Not that I can tell, but I'm sure you'll be able to -- " 

Sherlock doesn't wait for him to finish his sentence before he stalks off to examine the body. 

"What's up with him?" Lestrade asks, taking a sip of coffee. 

"Don't ask." 

"Okay... Trouble in paradise?"

"Something like that. I don't want to talk about it." 

Lestrade gives a perfunctory nod and leads John over to the body. 

"Victim is Zahara Todd, twenty-eight years old, was training to be a solicitor. Lives in Kentish Town, and was found by some kids around lunchtime." 

"What mark?" John asks, clasping his hands together behind his back. 

"Virgo, I believe." He takes another sip. "Do you want to take a closer look, John?"

"I'm sure Sherlock knows what he's doing." 

Lestrade turns and looks him up and down. John pointedly doesn't turn to meet his gaze, instead focusing on a patch of grass a few metres away from the crouching Sherlock.

"John, I finish my shift at half six. Come have a pint with me." Lestrade finally says, sinking his free hand into his front trouser pocket. 

"Uh, sure." That hadn't been the response he was expecting. He had been bracing himself for a barrage of questions -- accountability for Sherlock's mood. Not beer. 

They spend the next few minutes in silence, both watching Sherlock become increasingly frustrated as he examines every inch of the body. Eventually, he stands, putting his magnifying glass back into his pocket with a little more force than necessary -- scowling as he stalks his way over to the pair watching in the distance. 

"Anything different?" Lestrade asks.

"Absolutely nothing. I'll need to examine the contents of her phone, send it to me when forensics have downloaded the contents."

"Will do."

"Come on, John. Let's go." Sherlock turns to leave, almost bumping into a uniformed officer in his hastiness. 

John clears his throat. 

"Actually, Sherlock, I'm going to stay here. Lestrade and I are going for a pint in a bit."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, he just scans John's face and sweeps off. Between him and Lestrade, John feels like he's been analysed to an inch of his life. 

"I'll just oversee the rest of the evidence collection. I'll meet you outside the yard in a bit, alright?"

John nods and makes his way back to the road. He has an hour or two to kill, so he takes the tube down to Embankment and finds a bench overlooking the Thames. 

For almost the entire two hours, he runs Sherlock's words over in his head, trying to work where they went wrong. He spins himself into circles, working through the same problems over and over again, and by the time it hits quarter-past six, he's not made any headway. 

John leans against a tree opposite New Scotland Yard, doing his best to look casual. At half-past six on the dot, Lestrade emerges from the building with his coat draped over his arms.

"Ah, John. There's a pub down the road we normally go to, that alright?"

"Yeah, sure."

Lestrade leads him down the road to the back of the yard. The pub is tucked into the side of a building; its gold lettering dull against the black paintwork. Lestrade holds the door open for John, and he makes his way over to join the queue at the bar.

"I feel like we've not properly met each other," Lestrade says, pulling his wallet out in preparation. John mirrors him, but Lestrade waves him away, promising to get the first round. For once, John feels calm about the situation, content in the knowledge that he can actually afford to pay for the next one. For now. 

"I suppose that's true; it seems unfair that you only ever see us at work." John raps his knuckles on the bar. "Do you ever talk to Sherlock outside of cases?"

"Ha. Sherlock is hardly ever not on a case, so there's no chance there." He scratches at his face, contemplating something. "We're friends, even if he won't admit it, but we don't socialise in the traditional sense. Before you, I didn't think he ever socialised with anyone. I miss just grabbing a pint with someone. Speaking of --" Lestrade takes the beers from the barmaid, handing one to John and spilling a bit of his own over the floor. 

"So, do I call you DI Lestrade all the time, or -- " 

"Greg." Lestrade chuckles. 

"So, Greg, What do you do when you're not running after the world's only consulting detective?" 

Lestrade smiles into his beer. 

"Spending time with my kids, mostly. The job has me working at all hours, so I try to spend as much time with them as possible." He wipes away the froth that had clung to his upper lip. "You know, so they don't hate me when they're older." 

"Ha. They'll do that anyway."

"Very true, but a man can only try." 

They chat aimlessly for an hour, mostly Lestrade gushing about his daughters, but at some point, they discover their mutual appreciation for rugby and Neil Gaiman novels. They disagree which is the best book, but come to the conclusion that the recent television adaptation is a favourite of theirs. 

Eventually, their conversation comes to a natural lull.

"So. You and Sherlock. What's going on?"

John groans into his glass. He's been dreading when this was going to come up.

"It's stupid. He thought the victims were all connected via a dating app, and in the process of researching, he found my old profile."

"Ah."

"Yeah. And it was from before I realised I was bi, which I think hit a nerve. Sherlock seems convinced that I'm going to leave him for someone else."

"That makes sense." Lestrade muses, fiddling with one of the flimsy coasters.

"Really? I thought he was overreacting."

"Oh, don't get me wrong, of course he overreacted, he's Sherlock after all. I just mean he's insecure is all. Of course he would be worried you're going to leave." 

"I don't understand. He always seems so confident in himself." 

Lestrade sighs, and swirls the last of his beer around the bottom of his glass. 

"He likes to pretend that, but that's not the reality. I mean, have you heard his sociopath bullshit? The man's no more of a sociopath than we are, he just refuses to let people get close to him."

"But I'm here, isn't that enough?" 

Lestrade just gives him a pitying look, and John realises how stupid he sounds. Of course Sherlock's insecurities wouldn't just disappear now that John was here. Hell, even though his inner turmoil felt easier, Sherlock hadn't magically cured him. Understanding who he was outside of a warzone still took work. His relationship with his sexual identity hadn't been magically resolved, but it was easier to understand with the detective around. 

"Yeah, I hear myself. It's just --" He feels the words rest on his tongue, and he hesitates a moment. "It feels like I'm not gay enough for anyone. He suddenly thinks I'm going to up and leave him for a woman, when my whole life the only person I've wanted this much is him." John feels his cheeks redden. Lestrade is the first person he's voiced his fears to, and they sound distorted outside of his head. 

"John, I don't think that's true. God knows Sherlock doesn't care about labels. I think he's just scared you're going to leave him full stop. I'm not sure he cares if that's for someone else, regardless of gender."

John drops his gaze to his glass, staring at the bottom as if some answers will magically be revealed. 

Lestrade leans back into his chair with a sigh, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. 

"Look, I've known Sherlock for a long time, and you're the first person I've ever seen him actively want to be around. He tends to push everyone else away. I mean, you know what he's like. It takes time to get used to his --" Lestrade pauses to find the right word, " -- quirks. Sally Donovan is not unusual; plenty of people think they can treat Sherlock however they want, just because he's different. Hell, he sure doesn't make it easier for himself, but that's not entirely his fault. You're the first person he's let in; I completely understand that he's terrified of losing you." 

John stays sat in stunned silence, pieces of the problem clicking into place. It makes sense Sherlock would lash out if he was so afraid of John leaving. It's the very thing John's been guilty of these past few years -- pushing people away to reduce the pain when they inevitably leave. 

"God, I'm an idiot." He eventually exclaims, draining the last of his beer and discarding the glass on the table. 

"You and me both, John." Lestrade copies him, placing their glasses side by side. "You and me both."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that was a Good Omens reference. I couldn't resist.


	7. A Reassurance of Tomorrow

When John gets home, Sherlock is sitting on the sofa with his laptop, the white light of the screen washing out his skin. He barely looks up when his blogger walks through the door, but John can see his shoulders tense, the fabric of his shirt clinging to each line of muscle. 

"Hey," John calls out, his voice sounding loud in the semi-darkness. Sherlock gives a soft grunt in reply. "Look, can we talk?" 

Sherlock sighs and closes the laptop with a snap, plunging the room into darkness. John switches on the floor lamp as he walks over to sit at the other end of the sofa. 

"I'm sorry I didn't delete the profile sooner. I'd honestly forgotten about it. But honestly, Sherlock, you don't need to worry about me leaving. You are, beyond doubt, the most incredible person I have ever met." He pauses for breath, picking at a loose thread on his trousers. He'd practised this all the way home, but it doesn't make it any easier to say. "When you found me, I was so lost. I was broken and bruised, and in the middle of the biggest identity crisis I've ever had. Suddenly you waltz into my life, and everything just -- made sense again. I chose to be here, Sherlock, and that's not going to change anytime soon." 

Sherlock finally turns to face him.

His eyes have softened around the edges, and John resists the urge to reach forward and take the detective into his arms.

"I really don't care about your gender preferences. It's not important to me, and frankly, it's none of my business. It just reignited something in me I'd forgotten was there. I panicked and picked the one thing I knew would hurt you. And for that, I am sorry."

"Thank you, Sherlock." 

John stands and pulls the detective up into a tight embrace. Sherlock wraps his arms around John's waist, and he feels every muscle in his torso relax at the touch. 

"I'm glad you're home," Sherlock murmurs into his neck, breathing in the musk of John's cologne, mixed with the faint odour of beer. 

"Me too." 

John isn't sure who initiates it, but between one heartbeat and the next they become entwined, one breath bleeding into the other. Steady hands guide him backwards, and their walk feels like a dance towards the open bedroom door. 

There is no franticness to their actions, no desperation to strip the other bare and devour them; rather a firm reassurance that the other is still there. Each item of clothing is peeled slowly from their bodies, and each touch of hand against skin is deliberate and controlled. John falls back against the pillows and Sherlock settles himself between his knees, leaning forward until they slide against each other, moaning into the contact. As they move, rocking together as the sheets curl around their ankles, they grasp at flesh and limbs, dark purple bruises blooming beneath their fingertips. It's a promise -- not anything as endless as forever, but an affirmation that for now, they are here. 

They come together, slow and shuddering against the blue dark. Neither pulls away from the other, instead sinking further into the sheets -- long limbs wrapped around shorter ones. They lie for hours in silence, ignoring the echoes of passing sirens, content to breathe in the smell of their desire. A fragment of time freezes in that room -- a slice of winter evening, holding only a consulting detective and his blogger, the only ones in the world. 

They are roused from their cocoon only by the protest of John's bladder. He sighs, brushing the shadow of a kiss across Sherlock's cheek, before rising to the bathroom. When he returns, half hoping to slip back into the timelessness of before, Sherlock has moved, having adjusted the pillows to sit up against the headboard. John climbs in next to him, resting his forehead against the sharp outline of Sherlock's collar bone, the sweet smell of sweat and sex radiating from his skin. The spell is broken -- Sherlock back to his restless self. He runs his fingers across the valley of John's back, gently pressing his fingertips into the skin as if trying to memorise each ridge of his spine. It's comforting, and more than once John catches himself on the precipice of sleep. Warm hands make their way slowly up his back, stopping only at the edge of the angry puckered scar on his shoulder. John tenses out of habit; forcing himself to relax when he realises Sherlock is hovering on the edge of the shattered skin, waiting for permission. 

"It's fine, it doesn't hurt." 

With the reassurance, Sherlock's fingers resume their journey as if uninterrupted, the touch a fragment lighter than before.

"How did it happen?" 

John feels the vibrations of baritone through his bony pillow. 

"It was a routine mission, an investigation of a makeshift shelter near the base. I went with the squad, just as a precaution. We weren't expecting to find anything useful. We were ambushed; people were hiding in the trees and the brush, waiting for us to arrive. I've seen plenty of people shot before, operated on more than I can remember, but this time -- this felt different." 

He remembers how time seemed to slow around him; bullets leaving trail marks in the air like aeroplanes; bodies lying broken and bloodied at his feet. The cry of the injured echoed in his ears, a sound that still haunts his dreams. 

"It just felt so pointless. People I'd known for years -- snuffed out just like that. Over what? Absolutely nothing." He lets out a breath through his nose, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "I tried to help them, but they died faster than my hands could work. And then it was too late."

John had felt the bullet pierce his shoulder and lodge itself in his infraspinatus muscle. His body had screamed at the intrusion, immediately trying to push against the invader. He knew the theory of bullet wounds, and could describe in detail how to treat such an injury, but at the moment when metal bruised flesh, all of it left his mind. He remembers being stunned; confused as to what had hit him. Adrenaline surged in his blood, but it wasn't enough to eliminate the pain. Counter-intuitively, he'd wanted to run -- forget the mission and get himself out of there as soon as possible. There had been a split second of pure blinding panic before his training had kicked in. He'd sunk down onto his belly, lying for what felt like hours, waiting for someone to retrieve him. All the while pockets of sand and dirt billowed from the ground next to him; violent promises of death. At some point, he passed out, and the next thing he remembers is being in the medic tent, a scream dripping from his lips. 

"I got shot and all I could think was; is it my turn now? Do I finally get to rest?" He tightens his grip around the detective's chest. "I was exhausted, Sherlock. I'd lost everyone who mattered to me and seen more soldiers die beneath my hands than I could remember. I didn't know until that bullet hit me that I was so fucking tired. I thought maybe that was it. My life; surrounded by death and blood and deserts. 33 years, and I was ready for it to be over." 

Sherlock's hands are still now, resting once again in the small of John's back. It's not a hesitant touch, overwhelmed at the depth of John's response, but rather an anchoring one, reminding John that he's still listening. Briefly, John considers stopping, aware that he's already answered Sherlock's question, but now they've started flowing, the words won't stop. They rush from his mouth, desperate streams of consciousness and all John can do is hang on for the ride. 

"And then it wasn't. The doctors patched me up and sent me home with a pat on the back and a ' _ job well done! _ ', and all of a sudden, I wanted to live again. The resignation was gone. I was still bloody exhausted, but I now could see the other end. I was out the other side. Trouble was, I didn't have anything left for me here. My friends were gone, either dead in the war or because I'd pushed them away years before. My parents were both dead; my sister drinking her marriage away, and I couldn't afford to live in the city I loved; the one home I had left."

The loneliness that had hit him the moment he stepped off the plane was a vivid memory. He felt like nothing like the boy who had enrolled to study medicine all those years ago, with his dreams of helping people and saving his mother. He did not know the man he'd become -- the change so gradual, so subtle, that it had happened without him noticing. London had no place for him anymore, yet it was the only place he could bear to be. 

"On top of this, the internal questions I had squashed over the last few years raised their head again. Feelings I'd tried never to look too closely at suddenly had a name. So I thought, okay, I might be attracted to more than just women, which is terrifying to figure out when you've already lived three decades. You're supposed to know who you are, by then. I started to wonder what else I was wrong about. I dug around inside myself, and I'm not quite sure what I found, but it was beautiful and terrifying all at the same time. Being unemployed, I had so many empty hours, and all I could do was think and think, turning my feelings over in my head, hoping that they'd start to make sense. Then suddenly, there's you."

He catches his breath, relaxing his shoulders and rubbing small circles into Sherlock's back. There are prickles of moisture in the corner of his eyes, but he blinks them away. He's not upset, nor angry at the world around him, but rather relieved that after months, maybe years, he's been able to release his burden.

"You and your mysterious cheekbones and the promise of danger. You read my life story with one glance, and everything just made sense." He lifts his head to look into the detective's eyes. "Sherlock, you are by far the most puzzling thing, but around you, my mind is quiet. I am sure of myself when you're here."

Silence falls again for the first time in minutes, their gaze unbreaking. Every wall John has built, each layer of protection he's guarded himself with for the last thirty years, all of it melts away. It was not the question Sherlock had asked, but it was the question John needed to answer. 

"Thank you." Sherlock's voice is delicate, bracketed by dusk. 

"I still have a lot to figure out. It's going to take time to become comfortable with the person I am now, but you make it easier." Gone is the waiver of frustration and breathless rambling. "It doesn't seem quite so scary, when I'm with you." 

John's breath catches against his teeth as he feels Sherlock shifting in his hands. He's worried he said too much; opened his heart too wide, but the fear ebbs as warm lips find his. 

It's not a distraction, nor a manipulation to keep John quiet; it's a promise.

_ I love the person you are now, and I will be here until you do too. _


	8. Matched

The bed beside him is cold when John wakes up. He smiles into the pillow, breathing in the lingering scent of Sherlock's ridiculously expensive shampoo, before peeling himself out of bed. Once he's showered and dressed, he pads down the corridor into the living room, greeted by 6 ft of naked consulting detective sat cross-legged on the coffee table. The wood bows under his weight, and John wonders how soon it will be before the table gives out from Sherlock's mistreatments. 

"Do you actually know how furniture works? I don't think I've ever seen you use anything properly." Sherlock just raises an eyebrow, his eyes roaming over John's pyjama dressed form. 

"Finally, I've been up for hours." 

John glances at his phone. 

"It's only seven am." 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, turning back to the myriad of papers stuck to the wall. It's grown since John last looked at it. Now the edges are sprawling almost to the ceiling. 

"Got any further?" John walks over to the coffee table, considers whether it will take both their weights, before sitting on the floor by Sherlock's feet. Immediately the detective's hands wind into his hair, tracing small circles over his skull. 

"No, the only connection I can find is the dating app. Nothing else is consistent." 

"It's a popular app, could it just be a coincidence?"

"The universe is rarely so lazy." 

"Alright Plato, then how does it connect them?"

"I don't know." Sherlock scowls, but keeps his hand in John's hair. John leans into the touch, wondering how he'd ever thought this would stop completely during a case. Sherlock is incredibly tactile, and when working he's filled with uncontained energy that needs to go somewhere. Before their relationship, he'd keep himself moving -- tapping his foot or playing with the objects around him to keep his hands busy. But now he has John. Sherlock can focus his energy into the army doctor, whilst leaving his brain free to process the details of the case. It's a welcome arrangement for both parties. 

John hums as Sherlock's fingers settle at the base of his neck, softly massaging the skin beneath. 

"It's almost as if the killer found them on the app without ever actually contacting them." John murmurs. He means it as an off-hand comment, expecting to be shot down, but the hands in his hair still. 

"Oh, That's brilliant."

"What's brilliant?"

"We've been looking for a connection in the wrong place. They all had Blaze downloaded, but none of their dates were the same. What if it wasn't the dates?" Sherlock tears his hands from John's hair and leaps from the coffee table. "What if they just matched with someone, but never spoke to them? It happens plenty of times, people too scared to make the first move. There would be no trace, nothing to tie them to the victims." 

"How would they know how to find them if they never spoke to each other?"

"Ah, but that's part of the game, John. They'd match with someone, then work out where they lived and what their schedule was based on the information available in their profile."

"Jesus, that's messed up." 

"I know," Sherlock agrees, but there's a smug grin plastered to his face. He grabs his laptop from the sofa and pulls up the phone software, cross-checking matches between the victims. 

"Why would they use the same profile? Surely you'd want to use different accounts, so it couldn't be traced back to you." 

"That's the frailty of genius, John. It requires an audience. Serial killers almost always want to be caught. They get cocky, the sense of danger from leaving clues is almost as good as the actual kill. Hiding in plain sight." 

"You know, you're truly terrifying sometimes." 

"So I've been told." He types furiously, creating some sort of algorithm to filter through the hundreds of matches between each victim. "There! Ami Lee. Matched with Underwood, Rookwood, McKenna, Patterson and Murphy. And if I have a look -- there. They matched with Todd too."

"We have our killer." John's grin spreads across his face, and as he turns, Sherlock is mirroring him, the frustration of the past few weeks chased out in a single moment. 

"We do indeed." 

*

Their celebration is short-lived, halted by Sherlock's frustration at the yard's processing skills. 

"If you'd let me do it, we'd have them behind bars by tonight," Sherlock complains to Lestrade, fiddling with an elastic band ball on the DI's desk.

"I know, Sherlock, but I can't let you access that kind of information. I don't even have the right clearance, only the guys down in tech do." He grabs the elastic bands from Sherlock's grip, shoving them back in his drawer. "They'll trace the account back to its owner, and we'll be able to pick them up tomorrow." 

Sherlock huffs with annoyance, opening his mouth to protest again, but swallows his words at the glare John gives him. 

"Fine. But if another body turns up, don't come to me." With that, he sweeps away, pulling his phone from his pocket as he stalks out of Lestrade's office. 

"Sorry about him. I think he's just frustrated it's taken this long." 

"Oh, I know. You don't have to apologise for him." Lestrade sighs and rises from his chair. "Let me tell you, he's a lot better now than he used to be." 

John raises an eyebrow. "Really?" 

"God, yeah. I don't know what you're doing, but keep at it. He's calmer than I've ever seen him." A hint of suggestion sparkles behind Lestrade's eye, and John unsuccessfully tries not to blush. 

"I wasn't planning on stopping."

"Who knew Sherlock Holmes just needed a good shag." A giggle escapes Lestrade's lips, and John glances down at his feet. He's not embarrassed about sex, never has been, but this feels different. Perhaps it's the realisation that this is more than just lust.

"He’s not -- I don't think that's all of it." he says to the floor. He bites his tongue before he can say anything more. Sherlock had confided in him, gentle murmurings across the pillow, that he only experiences attraction to people he knows -- people he shares a strong connection with. And since many don’t bother looking beyond the carefully crafted wall, his so-called ‘sociopathic’ defence, very, very few ever get as far as John has. John wants to correct Lestrade, remind him that sex isn’t something that everyone freely gives and takes, but he refrains, not knowing whether the DI is privy to those details about Sherlock’s life.

"No, it's not." Lestrade's eyes soften, seeing John's quickly reddening cheeks. John wonders how much he knows, whether John misjudged him, but Greg interrupts before he has time to ask. "Hey, do you want to get another drink tonight? Last time was fun." 

"Sure. As long as you don't bring my sex life up again." John can't help but say it with a smirk, wondering how Sherlock would have reacted if he were here. Lestrade mirrors him, closing the file in front of him and shoving it on an increasingly large pile beside him. 

"Deal. The Red Lion again? Six-thirty?" 

"See you there." 

* 

John arrives at the pub half an hour early, having vacated the flat in a hurry to get out from under Sherlock's feet. Patience is not one of the detective's virtues, and he had taken to pouring his frustration out onto his violin. After three hours of screeching, John had had enough. 

The pub is busy, and it takes him a couple of trips around the room to find an empty table. He lays his jacket on the chair to claim it, before wandering back over to the bar to return the previous patrons empty glasses. He debates ordering two beers, but reasons that Lestrade's wouldn't still be cold by the time he arrived.

The barmaid seems to drink him in, her eyes flickering over his chest and giving him a coy smile. She looks familiar, but he can’t place her face. She probably served him last night. He ignores her advances, placing cash on the counter in clear rejection. There was a time when he would have pounced on it; flirting with her because he could, regardless of whether it would lead anywhere. A part of him still wants to; she's not unattractive, her cropped hair accentuating the curve of her face, but he pictures Sherlock and the feeling fades. 

She sets the pint in front of him, foam dripping down the side of the glass, and he walks away from the bar before she gets any other ideas. The beer is cold against his lips, and he feels his shoulders relax at the first sip. 

John pulls a notebook from his pocket, scribbling strings of words together, trying to find the title for the case. Now it's almost solved, he's ready to pull together his fragments of notes into a coherent blog post. Hopefully, after this one they'll have a break, giving him time to write the whole thing down. 

After a month of no results, it's a relief to be within reaching distance of the truth. Sherlock's baseline restlessness was starting to become stifling when mixed with his building frustration. John reasons that any state of calm won't last long, but it will make a change from the constant thrum of energy in the flat. He's enjoyed it, the anticipation of the next development. Still, the increased frequency of Sherlock's chagrin is starting to drain both of them. 

A wave of drowsiness hits him, the thick burning of bile creeping up his throat. He blinks, trying to swallow it down, but the edges of his vision blur as the burning gets stronger. His head starts to spin, nausea rolling through his skull. 

He's so occupied by the strange sensation in his throat, that he doesn't notice the stranger approach until they're standing behind him. He feels them lean forward to whisper in his ear, so close that their lips almost brush the cartilage of his pinna. 

"Walk outside with me. Don't make a sound, or I'll puncture your kidney." 

The knife is heavy against his clothes, and he's only briefly aware of the hand on his back, pressing it to his side. He takes a step, stumbling slightly as his head swims with whatever he's been drugged with. The stranger pushes harder against his side, breaking the first layer of skin above his kidneys. Their arm wraps around his waist, making it look as if they’re leaving as a couple; concealing the secret beneath. 

He walks towards the door, cursing himself for leaving his phone in his jacket pocket, still draped over the chair. Through the dizziness that is beginning to consume him, he scans the crowd, faintly hoping that Lestrade is waiting somewhere for him. 

The cold air outside clears his head a little, but the relief is short-lived before another wave of nausea rolls over him. It takes all his concentration to put one foot in front of the other. He's herded down the street, away from the heaving pub, and down into a narrow alley off the main road. The path is lined with industrial bins, and the stranger pushes him behind one, hiding him from view of the main road. 

"Back against the wall." 

He complies, and as he turns, he recognises the figure standing before him. 

"You," It comes out as a whispered breath, as he struggles to pull in enough air to fill his lungs. The woman smiles, smugness distorting her features -- the barmaid. And then he realises why he recognised her. Rupert Street, that first night. She had served him his beer; hovered on the periphery of Sherlock and Daniel’s exchange. It would have been easy to slip him something, then escort him out under the proviso of intoxication. 

"You paid attention. They don't always recognise me." 

"I was meeting a detective from Scotland Yard. I'm not alone." His words are starting to slur, blurring together as he tries to keep his eyes open. The lids are heavy with whatever she drugged him with; it's taking everything in his power to stay on the edge of consciousness. 

The woman frowns. 

"You're probably lying, but it doesn't matter. You'll be dead soon." 

She trails the sharp blade of the knife from his side up to his chest, amusement pulling at her lips. John slides down the wall as his knees buckle, keeping one hand along the brickwork to steady himself. He tries to push himself forward -- use his body weight to knock her out, but the drug is too deep into his system. He flops rather than falls, and she pushes him back into the wall with one hand. 

"Oh, don't strain yourself. You'll only make this harder." She croons, increasing the pressure of the blade with the last word. John winces as it cuts through his clothes and scrapes at his skin. She runs an outline over his chest, tracing the shape with the edge of her blade, before pushing harder. 

Even in his drugged state, John lets out a cry, stars popping behind his eyes. The dark fingers of unconsciousness creep into his vision, but he tries to push them away, desperate to cling to his life for as long as possible. 

"Bless you, you've lasted longer than most of them." She places her other hand on his cheek, brushing away a tear. "Here, I'll make it easier for you," She cuts faster, pushing further and further into the skin, her eyes widening with each new cry that escapes John's mouth. 

_ 'I'm not ready to die.' _

The thought overwhelms him -- pushing all of his senses to the periphery. The pain dulls, just slightly, and his blood fills with an overriding urge to live. He can't think straight; can't calm his mind long enough to come up with a plan, and his body won't coordinate with him, but every cell in him screams in protest. A whimper escapes his throat before he can stop it. It sounds pathetic against the drip of blood from his chest, and it only serves to make the woman smile -- a toothy grin that sends icy shivers through his bones. 

"Please." The words escape him before he processes them. A plea, followed by another tear dripping from his jaw. "Please, let me live." 

The knife stops mid slice, still dug deep into his chest, and the woman in front of him cocks her head, her eyes scanning his face as if searching for something. She sees each crease of his skin, the salt leaking from his eyes; bile dripping from the corner of his mouth. She regards him for what feels like an hour, her face steeped in the curiosity of a child, before she finally speaks. 

"No." 

And that's the last thing he remembers. 


	9. Hunted

The sand is scorching beneath his feet. He wiggles his toes, sand running between them, and he raises a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding midday sun. John stands in the middle of a desert, dressed in a loose white shirt and khakis, barefoot in the golden sand. He twists around, searching the rocks and planes around himself, but he's completely alone.

"Hello?"

His voice echoes around him, drowning out the ringing in his ears.

"Hello?!" He tries again, taking a step forward, only to find that the desert is gone. Instead, he is standing in the ruins of a building; the ground scorched black around him. He drops his hand to his thigh, noting the charred, peeling wallpaper, and the husks of burnt furniture surrounding him.

His breath catches in his throat as he recognises the remains of the chair in front of him — 221B. The carcass of the flat spreads around him, each turn of his head revealing a new fragment discarded. The wallpaper is shredded, the yellow face missing half its smile, and the skull lies black and crumbling beneath.

His eyes scan frantically around the room, cataloguing all of the broken pieces of his life, left here to rot. His vision starts to swim, overwhelmed with the quantity, until he sees something that makes him stop.

The violin. Sherlock's violin lies blackened in front of the fireplace; charcoal from the flames. Something catches in John's throat, and his brain stalls, the violin the only image stuck in his brain.

"Sherlock?" He whispers, his voice still sounding loud in the corpse of a room. Had he been here when it was burning? If he walked through the empty corridor towards their room, would he find more than just the barren remains of their life together?

His breath catches in his throat, panic steadily building in his chest. He stands frozen, unable to consider the possibility fully. Had he lost everything before he'd really begun?

Tentatively, he takes a step towards the bedroom, but the moment his foot touches the ground he's back in the scorching desert, blind heat beating relentlessly down. He squints against it, bringing his hand back up to shield his face, and something moves in the distance. A black shape, peering above one of the hills.

"Is anyone there?" He shouts again, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. The shape moves, ducking under the brow of a hill and reappearing again further to his left. He follows it with his gaze, trying to discern its identity, the hair on the back of his neck prickling with a warning. Without thinking, he takes a step towards it, only to find himself back in the remains of 221B. This time, the kitchen window has shattered, glass sprayed outwards onto the floor in front of him. The door to the bedroom is closed, barely touched by the fire, and John is overcome by the need to open it. He needs to know what lies beyond; whether his life is truly crumbling around him. He tries another step, and the walls dissolve into sand and sun. He doesn't pause long enough to see the shadowed figure slinking closer towards him. Another step brings him closer to his sanctuary; the room where, despite everything the world outside is throwing at him, everything makes sense.

Another step. Desert. Another, 221. Desert, 221. He's gaining ground, each stride forward bringing him closer to the door -- until something hits him, and he falls. Glass digs into his shins and wrists; blood drips steadily to the floor. His body is sprawled out on the blackened floorboards, less than a metre away from his goal. Ignoring the flash of pain running through his veins, he inches forwards, trying to get back onto his feet, but when surrounded by the relentless sun something bowls him over once more. He pauses, just for a second, trying to catch his breath, before edging forward again, using his arms to drag himself across the glass. In the corner of his eye, the dark figure lurks, crouched just out of focus. John turns his head to see it, but each time he moves it slinks further behind him, keeping out of reach. He stops, trying desperately to see what it is, but his eye can't focus long enough to get a proper view. It's animal-like, crouching low to the ground, but other than that, all he can see is a shadow. He rises to his feet, attempting to push forwards, but the attacker pounces on him again. His head smacks the ground and stars pop in his eyes.

He lies there for a while, waiting for the pain to ebb, each breath shattering his lungs. He could lie here forever, if he wanted. Forget the room, forget Sherlock -- he could lie here in the ashen remains of 221B forever, safe in his isolation. If he never moves, no-one can hurt him. He'd be safe here.

His eyes almost flutter closed, relieved at the decision, until a whisper sounds in his ear.

"John?"

They snap open, desperate to hear the voice again, and just as he begins to think he's imagined it --

"John, come back to me."

He can't stay. He's never settled. He might be safe, alone and broken on the floor, but he doesn't have _him_. John doesn't have the thrill that Sherlock brings, the calm certainty that this is who he is. He is a man who runs around London, chasing criminals until the wee hours of the morning. A man who invaded Afghanistan, pulling bullets from intrepid soldiers. He is a man who doesn't give up. Safety is wrong. Safety is easy.

"I'm coming." The words are bearly loud enough to pass his lips, but they are a promise. I'm coming to find you. Wait for me.

With a cry of pain, he pulls his body closer to the door, bracing himself for impact. He drags himself across the broken glass as fast as he can, yellow sand and blackened walls bleeding into each other. A growl echoes in his ears, the unknown attacker circling him, waiting to pounce. ' _Try your best.'_ He thinks, gritting his teeth and pulling himself forward once more. A scrape of blood on glass, the burn of sun on skin, and he's there. The base of the door is in front of him; his hands can touch the polished wood. It hums beneath his hand, warmth spreading out over his palm.

Slowly, he brings his knees to his chest and tries to stand, but something pushes him down. A firm pressure weighs on his spine, and a deep rumble reverberates in his ears. His attacker, thwarting his final move. It would be easy to stop here. Let himself be pinned here forever. _No._

His muscles screaming, blood dripping from every surface, he throws all his weight at the creature weighing him down. His feet find purchase before it has time to pounce again, and he pushes the last amount of strength he has into falling forwards into the door. It swings open, hinges creaking in protestation, and then darkness swallows him.

*

His eyes snap open, vision blurred, breath heaving in his chest. He's lying down, covered in scratchy sheets, the room around him white and cold. A machine beeps by his ear, and something pulls at his arm as he tries to move it -- a tether that sends stinging pains through his veins as he pulls against it. Something grabs his arm, and he panics, thinking the dark creature is back. It will hold him down forever and stop him from walking through that door. Stop him getting to the one person that --

"John, it's okay, you're safe. You're okay."

He blinks, his vision focusing as a curly-haired figure comes into view. Sherlock. A sob builds in his throat, but he swallows it down, instead wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's wrist and squeezing tightly. He closes his eyes, focusing on the noise surrounding him. Machines beeping behind him, Sherlock's gentle breathing beside him, the squeak of shoes on the tiled floor. The tether he's been pulling against is an IV, hence the biting sensation when he pulls against it. There's a pulse oximeter on his finger, pinching his skin in an almost unpleasant way. A siren sounds somewhere outside, drifting through an open window.

He opens his eyes again to find Sherlock watching him. The detective's face is weary, dark circles under his eyes and his hair dishevelled. His eyes, however, are bright, studying John as he slowly absorbs all of the information around him. Sherlock doesn't rush him; he just watches as John slowly comes back into himself. Finally, when John feels himself become grounded, more confident that this is real, he clears his throat and tries to speak.

"Hello." It's all he can manage, the words scratching at his throat. Sherlock smiles, his face brightening but not quite reaching the melancholy in his eyes.

"Hello." He echoes, squeezing John's arms in reassurance. "You're in St Thomas's hospital. You were drugged."

John nods, or dips his head in as close a nod he can manage, running his tongue over his teeth and gums. His mouth is dry, lips sticking to teeth as he tries to form words.

"Did she get away?"

A ghost of a smirk passes Sherlock's lips, and he shakes his head before reaching out to hand John the glass of water that was sitting beside his bed.

"No. Lestrade got her. We found you just as you passed out."

"Good." He sips slowly at his water, quashing the urge to swallow it all down in one go. He takes stock as he does, identifying the different aches and pains in his body. Every muscle seems to be screaming at him, sore as if he's just run a marathon. His throat still aches, presumably from having his stomach pumped, but it's all overwhelmed by the sharp aching in his chest. Instinctively, his hands search for the source of the pain, and he is greeted with thick padded dressings across his chest.

"They've given you antibiotics. The cuts are quite deep, but they should heal with time. You might have a couple of weird scars, but you'll be okay." Sherlock reads his mind, answering his unspoken questions.

John goes to speak but is interrupted by a doctor coming to check John's vitals. Sherlock tries to move his hand, but John squeezes his wrist again, so he stops. John closes his eyes for most of it, overwhelmed with a sudden wave of fatigue, although all he has done is sleep for god knows how long. John knows he should let himself; his body is still healing, but there is a nagging fear in the back of his mind that if he lets himself go, this will all be a dream. He'll wake up back in the desert/Baker Street hybrid, and Sherlock will be gone again.

After the fifth time John wrenches his eyes open, the doctor leaves, promising to check back on him later. Sherlock moves his hand so their fingers are entwined, his thumb running small circles over John's palm.

"Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

John tries to protest, but Sherlock quietens him with a kiss. It feels like breathing again, as if he's been starved of oxygen.

His eyes flutter closed, and he doesn't try to open them again, letting himself relax as the thick fingers of sleep grip him.

"Thank you," John whispers. About what specifically, he's not sure. For saving his life? Most definitely. Not just this time, but for finding him in a bar all those months ago; for stealing his Oyster card and leaving him a mystery to solve. For saying it could be dangerous; dragging him to crime scenes and showing him that life outside Afghanistan is not a monotony. For allowing him to reconnect with people on the outside. For never asking him to relay each gory detail of his service, but holding him tightly when he did. For giving John the space to understand himself; this version of him that overwhelmed him for so long.

When he wakes again, Sherlock is not alone. Before he opens his eyes, he is aware of the soft sound of voices surrounding him, but they stop before he can make out what they are saying.

"Hey," John feels Sherlock's hand reach forward to take his own, and he smiles because of course Sherlock would realise the minute he woke. John blinks his eyes open, using his free hand to wipe away the crust of sleep.

"Hi." He replies, looking around the room for the second voice as his vision comes into focus. Lestrade is sat in the chair next to Sherlock, looking considerably better dressed but echoing the exhaustion in Sherlock's face.

"Hi, John."

"Greg. Sorry, never got that beer."

Lestrade gives a nervous huff of laughter, running his palms along the top of his trousers. "You owe me another one then."

"Okay, so what happened," John asks, wincing as he tries to sit himself up. Sherlock places a hand on his chest to stop him, but John waves him off, slowly inching himself up into a sitting position.

"What do you remember?" Lestrade asks, sitting straighter in his chair and uncrossing his legs.

"Well, I went to the pub, ordered a beer. The barmaid seemed to check me out, but I ignored her and walked back to my table." He pauses to catch his breath. "Next thing I know, I start feeling dizzy and sick, and the same barmaid appears behind me with a knife. She walks me out to the alley, starts cutting some funky symbol onto my chest and that's when I passed out. I had a bizarre dream, and then I woke up here." John alternates between Sherlock and Lestrade's faces as he speaks, waiting for them to jump in with the details.

"I must have come in not long after you left. I found your jacket on the chair but assumed you'd just gone to the loo. It was Sherlock who told me you could be in danger." His voice softens, changing from his work persona to something more heartfelt. "It's a miracle we got to you in time, if Sherlock hadn't warned me you'd have been dead by the time I realised anything was wrong."

John's brow furrows, and he turns to look at the detective.

"How did you know?"

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"I was looking at all the matches the killer's account had made. You were one of them."

"But you can't have seen those; they're private."

Lestrade shoots Sherlock a glare.

"I may have broken into the system. I said I could do it faster than the idiots at the yard."

Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated with the detective's antics.

"Well, let's be glad you did otherwise this would be a completely different situation. I think we'll leave that part off the report though, given the circumstances."

"So, who was she? The killer?" John asks, wincing as he catches his IV on the side of the bed.

"Emelia Fisher. Third-year medical student at UCL. We've got her in custody now; I questioned her this morning. She's confessed to all of the murders."

_The frailty of genius. It needs an audience._

"Did she know I was helping with the case? Was I targeted specifically?" John asks. Sherlock scowls, and a grin plasters Lestrade's face.

"No. It was a complete coincidence."

"We almost had her, if you'd let me have access to the database -- "

"You're just bitter because we caught her before you had a chance to solve it." Lestrade interrupts. "Admit it."

"I did solve it; you were just too late."

John lets out a huff of laughter that hurts his ribs. Of course Sherlock would be annoyed that the yard arrested her by accident, rather than because he had deduced her identity.

"I can picture the blog post now. 'Police arrest killer by mistake, Sherlock Holmes goes out of business'. "

"You'd better not." Sherlock chides, but a smile is beginning to play at his lips.

"Right. I'd better be off, but I'll be back tomorrow to collect a formal statement from both of you." Lestrade stands. "And rest, the pair of you." He gives them a conspiratorial glance as he leaves the room, the door shutting softly behind him.

Sherlock shuffles closer, taking John's hand back into his own.

"Thank you," John murmurs against the pillow. The room has settled, a thick cloud of tranquillity wrapping around them.

"For what?"

"Finding me."

"I'll always find you." Sherlock gently brushes John's cheek, and the doctor imagines that he's trying to wipe away the worry nestled beneath.

"Okay, now you're scaring me. You're getting too sentimental." The grin pulls at John's lips, and Sherlock can't help but mirror it. "Here, get in."

It's a squeeze, but Sherlock climbs in beside him as John shuffles over to make room. He rests his head on the detective's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The thick fingers of sleep start to claim him again, and John fights to keep his eyes open.

"I was terrified I was going to lose you." He almost misses it, suspended on the edge of slumber, but he drags himself back long enough to reply.

"I'm not going anywhere." A hand makes its way to the back of his neck, rubbing small circles at the base of his skull. He leans into it, letting his eyes flutter closed and sleep creeps up once more.

"Stay?" He whispers, hands curling into Sherlock's shirt, nestling his head further into his chest.

"Always."

###  Epilogue:

The bar is busy for a Thursday night. This time, John is prepared. He beelined for a specific table as soon as they entered, leaving Sherlock to head to the bar and order their drinks. 

The room looks much the same; the purple-tinted lighting creates strange shadows on the walls, and bodies are still clustered in each corner of the room. Something, however, feels different; oddly comforting. Perhaps it’s John that’s different. He can vividly remember sitting here, months ago, and panicking whenever he made eye contact with anyone. Now, he scans the room comfortably, and whilst he knows that this scene is not something he wants to do regularly, he feels assured knowing that it exists. That there is a slice of London made just for him. 

“I’m glad you found the place okay,” Sherlock smirks as he wanders over, holding a beer and a glass of wine. 

“I almost got off at the wrong station, but I got there in the end.” They share a knowing smile, before Sherlock holds his glass out.

“I’m glad you did.” 

“Me too,” John replies, clinking his beer bottle against the wine glass, and taking a sip. 

He lets his gaze roam around the room again, and the familiarity of it surprises him. He still has a long way to go; nothing has been magically fixed by the detective sauntering into his life, but for the first time in years, everything feels calmer. Yes, he wonders how much there is left to learn about himself, what secrets his mind is hiding, but for now the thought doesn’t scare him. He’s alive. He’s happy; that’s all that matters. 

“You know, before I knew your name, I called you Mr Cheekbones.” 

Sherlock snorts into his drink. “Really?” 

“Mm. And Curly Hair.” John can’t help but let out a giggle. In echoes in his glass where it rests against his lips. “Why didn’t you tell me your name?”

“It’s on the website; you can never be too careful. I was trying to stay undercover, and anyone could have recognised it. Besides—“ Sherlock’s face softens into a sultry smirk, “—that would ruin the mystery.”

John nudges him with his foot under the table, heat beginning to spark in his stomach. 

“Well, Sherlock Holmes, I’ve certainly seen plenty of mystery these past few months.” 

Sherlock drains the rest of his glass and stands, extending an outstretched hand. “Very true, Dr Watson. Want to see some more?”

“Oh god, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I love each and every one of your comments, thank you for sharing your thoughts as you read. 
> 
> Please check out the absolutely GORGEOUS cover art allsovacant made for me. It’s stunning. Truly.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover | Rupert Street](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28689753) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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